Namaste
by LondonBelow
Summary: AngelCollins, teen!MarkRoger. While Collins and Angel cope with their adopted child, Roger struggles with his sexuality and identity. Mark, meanwhile, has fallen in love... wildly AU. Complete
1. The Boy

**Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson**

"It's a complete emergency!" A wooden spoon clattered against the tiles of the kitchen counter. "It's destroyed. Thanksgiving is _called off_," she declared, fighting back the tears that welled as things went wrong again and again.

"Angel, calm down, baby." Even as he said it, Collins knew that the chances of her actually listening to him, taking a deep breath and realizing that she had no just cause for hysteria, were slim to none with a heavy weight on the "none" side.

He was right. That made Collins happy. He liked being right.

"Calm down?" Angel repeated. She pushed a sauce-streaked clump of hair behind her ear. "We have guests arriving in twenty minutes, an angry teenager upstairs, and you know he can't be polite—"

Not if his life depended on it, Collins agreed silently. Aloud, he said, "They're family, Ang—"

"And they've been driving for six hours," she continued, deep into her fervor, as though he had never spoken, "and seeing as it's _not_ going to be an easy Thanksgiving the _least_ we could do is have proper food, but we don't!"

"We're not eating until this evening," Collins reminded her levelly. "Listen, I doubt they'll even be hungry when they get here. Joanne probably stopped for drive-thru."

"She hates--"

"Two teenagers," Collins reminded her.

"Oh, yeah…"

"Still." Collins kissed her cheek. "What is it you need?"

"Flour."

He paused. "Flour? They'll be here in twenty minutes!" When Angel only stared, he ceded, throwing his hands up. "All right! I'll go buy flour if you will try to get him out of his room."

Even when she agreed, Angel knew she wouldn't. Well, she might try, but not very hard.

As her luck had it, all she needed was a call upstairs. She stood at the foot of the stairs and, without asking herself why, called into the faint pillow of Rolling Stones music, "Roger, would you come downstairs please?"

Angel didn't ask herself why any more than she acknowledged that she seriously doubted he would come down. Had she asked, she would have had to admit that she did not expect him to come down, almost ever, as her imagination had chased away from her like a kitten with a bit of string.

The boy in the upstairs bedroom, the one in the front of the house with the big window that didn't open, the room tucked away to the left behind the staircase (not because it was small, but for privacy), had become a phantom to her. He was Quasimodo, picking eerie tunes on his guitar at all hours. He was the glass in the sink, used and cleaned in the night without waking anyone.

The pictures had made her gasp and convince Collins that _this_ was the child. Turns out, he was right. _"I don't think we would know where to begin. We're not ready—"_ But Angel had pouted and argued and had her way in the end, and he was right.

He did that a lot. It was starting to annoy her.

To Angel's surprise, she had barely finished calling his name but the music stopped. The door creaked open, and a slight figure with hands deep in his pockets half-jumped, half-ambled down the stairs, as though drawn by an invisible thread.

"Yes?" he asked her feet.

"Why don't you come and help me in the kitchen?"

"'Kay."

Angel swiftly found that Roger followed directions well. He laid out the tablecloth and plates, but when faced with cutlery, he paused. Roger bit his lip. He glanced at Angel, who was in the kitchen humming to herself as she arranged something in a dish. Smells reached his nose, and Roger's nostrils flared to take in as much as possible of the spiced, tomato-like scent. His stomach began to churn, and he gave it a stern look.

"How's it going in there?" Angel asked, stepping over to the dining room table. When she saw the arrangement, she paused. "Oh, honey." Roger had set the cutlery in a log-cabin formation on each plate. "If you don't know, _ask me_."

"Sorry," Roger mumbled, kicking the back of his leg with the opposite foot.

"It's like this—are you watching?—put the fork on the right-hand side… there. Now the knife on the left." She moved slowly, and Roger imitated. "Little forks up top, point the tines right, and—yes. Just like that."

Roger finished with the first setting and moved onto the next, suppressing the urge to grumble about fancy holiday settings. He had to admit, it did look nice.

He counted the plates: _one, two_-- Collins and Angel _three, four, five_-- for Collins' sister and her two kids _six, seven, eight_ Collins' brother, his wife and stepchild. _Nine._

Roger frowned. That didn't add up.

"Honey, have you eaten today?" Angel asked. Roger shook his head. "Come on." She jerked her head in the direction of the kitchen. "Let's find you some lunch."

Ten minutes later, Roger sat on the back steps, the creeping, rickety staircase he loved stealing down in the night, with a plate balanced on his knees. He hunched over his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and jammed a quarter of it into his mouth for one bite.

The sandwich was gone in under a minute.

Outside, a dog barked. It was not Mrs. Widowed-Across-the-Way's little lapdog—Arthur had a much higher yap—or Mr. Swingin'-Bachelor's golden retriever, a pup who women loved but Mr. Swingin'-Bachelor did not particularly care for. This, Roger knew, was a new dog. New dog meant new people.

"That's Benny," Angel said as the doorbell rang. "Roger, would you—"

But the boy had disappeared, leaving only a plate on the stairs. Angel heard a door slam shut upstairs. She sighed, then went to answer the door herself.

_To be continued!_

All right, I know I've started a lot of new stories lately and that most of them have gone quickly into hold. This one is already partially written and largely plotted, so it should be seen through.

Reviews would be fantastic! ...please?


	2. The Siblings

**Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson; Queen Beruthiel belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and that game/general sequence is Lady Alyssa and Random Dent's; Phish Food is a Ben and Jerry's product (delicious) and the sherbet things someone else's**

"Stop it!" Maureen whined. She shoved the Polaroid back at Mark.

"Don't break it!" Mark snapped. He grabbed his camera and cradled it to his chest.

"Don't put your junk on my side of the seat!" Maureen returned. After over five hours' driving, the two were cramped, cranky and tired of the numb muscles in their bottoms.

Mark licked his finger and pushed it to hover near Maureen's ear. She squealed. "Eeew! Mom! Make him stop! Ew, Mark, you have cooties! MOM! Augh! He touched me!"

"I did not!"

"You did, you did, I felt it! Ew!" Maureen slapped her ear, fighting away Mark's cooties.

"I didn't _touch_ her," Mark protested.

From the front seat came an exasperated sigh, then a snap of, "We're almost there, kids. Try to sit still for five minutes."

"We're bored," Mark stated matter-of-factly. "We're trying to entertain ourselves."

"Then play the geography game or Queen Beruthiel's Cat," was the tart response.

Mark looked at Maureen. Watching his mother in the rearview mirror—her eyes remained fixed on the road—he pulled a notebook from his messenger bag. "Queen Beruthiel's cat was an aggravating cat," he announced a little too loudly, passing Maureen his notebook.

"Queen Beruthiel's cat was an allergic cat," she replied, also loudly, and she scrawled _asshole_.

Mark took the notebook back. "Queen Beruthiel's cat was a--" _buggered_ "--Babylonian Talmud-studying cat."

When they pulled up in front of the house, Maureen had written _asshole, bastard, cock_ and _dipshit_. Mark had written _buggered, cunt, damn_ and _fuck_. They fell out of the car almost before it had completely stopped, eager to be at last free to walk around.

The door was open, and the kids ran inside without waiting. They hugged their aunt and uncle, and left the kitchen each with a cookie in hand. When her foot touched the first step, Maureen yelped, "Race you!" and bolted.

Mark protested, "No fair!" He sprinted to catch up, the two together causing enough noise to deafen a herd of elephants. They knew the house from previous stays, so the two tumbled into the bedroom. Mark grabbed a handful of Maureen's sweater and pulled her back, jumped ahead and touched the windowsill. "Hah!"

"You cheated!"

"Did not!"

"Did!"

"Didn't!"

Maureen grabbed Mark and tickled his armpits. Mark squealed. "Stop it!" he whined, striving to jab an elbow into her gut. "Reen!"

Downstairs, their mother trudged into the house. "Hey, Joanne."

She embraced Collins. Before even saying hello, she began, "Now _please_ this Thanksgiving--"

A loud yap interrupted her. "Hello?" called someone from the doorway.

"Aunt Angel!"

A blur of dark, fat braids, denim and floral print attached itself to Angel's legs. "Hey, Mimi."

The ten-year-old looked up and grinned. "Lookit," she said, pointing at her mouth.

Angel gasped dramatically. "You lost a tooth!"

"Uh-huh!" Mimi's head bobbed up and down in an enthusiastic nod, braids slapping her back.

"High-five, baby." Angel offered her palm and Mimi smacked it playfully.

"Mimi, why don't you go show Maureen your tooth?" Alison asked. She masterfully eased her daughter away from Angel and directed her towards the stairs.

"It came out in the car," Mimi announced. She dug in her pocket and produced a lint-dusted little thing, then she raced off to find her cousins and display her lost bit of jaw to them.

"How was the drive?" Collins asked of Joanne.

She sighed. "They could be ten years younger and behave like that," she muttered.

_To be continued!_

Reviews? Please?


	3. The Fag

Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's.

Roger frowned powerfully at the page in front of him. The eraser of his pencil rested gently against his lip.

y equals 2x+5

3y equals 6x+19

He remembered Sophie, her breath smelling of butterscotch as she leaned over and explained to him, _"This part tells you what the equation looks like,"_ underlining the "y-equals-mx" piece. _"This just tells you where it is."_ Her lips stuck to her teeth when she smiled.

There wasn't anything sexual about Sophie. Well, there was. There were her breasts, her eyes, her hair. If she hadn't been chubby, Roger was sure, she would be too busy with a boyfriend to bother leaning over and helping him with his math homework.

But Roger wasn't interested in her. It wasn't that he didn't like girls, either; he did. He wasn't a fag or anything, since he had had _those_ dreams sometimes, about boobs and what girl skin felt like.

At least that's what Roger told himself. If he liked girls then he wasn't a fag, never mind that sometimes in those dreams they were… _different_ girls. Just because she had short hair and no boobs and a penis instead of a vagina didn't mean she wasn't a girl. And even if she was actually a he, and if Roger did sometimes want to do sex and things with boys and have boys do sex and things to him, well, that didn't make him a fag, because he still liked girls.

At least that's what Roger told himself, when he thought about it at all.

Maybe there were boys in those dreams because he knew more about boys. Maybe his interest in penises was more related to his love of that particular piece of his own body, how good it could make him feel, how in any of the homes, no matter the circumstances, if Roger had a moment and a place to himself he could always make the bad stuff go away.

Or perhaps boys featured in the dreams because Roger knew where everything was on a boy. He had never seen those bits on a girl. He had a good idea for what breasts looked like—a bit like cupcakes on the top, like dumplings at the sides, and they felt like balloons filled with cum—but he hadn't been anywhere near a bare vagina since the day he popped screaming out of one.

It was just easier to think about the boy parts. That way he didn't need to ask questions like, which way do the nipples point? How much space is there between the breasts? Do vaginas close up when it's cold, like penises get smaller? And is there hair there, too, on a girl?

How could Roger have _those_ dreams often about women without knowing the answers to all that?

But he knew what it was like on boys. It was so much simpler, too. Everything was right _there_, you could _see it_. Did girls know, even, what they looked like? Everything was hidden under clumps of hair and tucked up inside. Even if he did catch a glimpse of a girl, and that alone seemed highly unlikely, all Roger would know was what her bits looked like on the outside.

A thunder on the stairs shook Roger from his reverie. His math problem remained undone; on instinct, he leapt away from his little desk and ducked into the closet. If they were coming up here to fetch him down, they would inevitably find him, but if they were only playing surely they would open the door, see his things and retreat.

Hopefully.

Roger hadn't found a good place for the treasure box. He had searched, but there were no loose floor boards, no empty spaces behind walls. Usually such places were only found in more run-down houses, not places like this one, old but well-kept.

There was a hole under the floor in the attic room, but Collins and Angel probably knew about that and anyway, Roger didn't like having it so far away. He knew they didn't store things there—all Roger had found in that particular spot was some insulation and an art knife blade—but they might find it.

The last thing he needed was for his treasure box to get took by someone.

Normally Roger would settle for under the bed, not a good spot since everyone already knew it but the only one he had, but this bed had drawers under it with things put in them. Angel said Roger could put his clothes in there, but Roger didn't have much in that way, certainly not enough to hide the treasure box.

And anyway she would go through those drawers. Angel did the majority of the laundry, retrieving and returning what clothes Roger had, so if he put it in the drawers Angel would know.

"You cheated!"

"Did not!"

"Did!"

"Didn't!"

They were obviously settled in the next room, playing. Crouched on the closet floor, his hair just brushed by shirt hems, Roger knew that it was safe to come out now.

He remained where he was, his arms tight around his body. Everything was too noisy, anyway, and Roger didn't like noise. Noise came before hitting. Noise came when he wanted to sleep. Noise came, and came, and came, and it didn't stop, and it never meant anything good.

"Hello?"

Downstairs, someone else had arrived. Roger gritted his teeth. He tried to remember the table as he set it that morning. One, two, Collins and Angel; three, four, five, Collins' sister and her two children, the children in the next room, Roger guessed; six, seven, eight, Benny and his wife and stepchild. This would be the wife and stepchild, then. Everyone was here.

Maybe everyone. Roger wasn't sure. _Nine_ plates meant _nine_ people. Maybe he wasn't so smart at math, but he knew that.

Would it be this loud all the time? Louder?

That was his favorite thing in the new house. There was no noise, or little noise. If Collins and Angel did real-parent things, they kept them quiet. They played their music quiet. When they slept, everything slept, because it was just Collins and Angel.

Roger liked that.

Now everything was loud. Roger pressed his hands to his ears. People were talking, laughing, reuning. They would want him there, too. Collins and Angel. They would make him come down. Collins had said, when he didn't know Roger could hear, that Joanne's daughter was just Roger's age, and her son a bit older, and maybe they would have more "success" with him.

The word had made Roger shiver and clutch his nightshirt tightly, muscles tensed to spring. He wanted to run back to bed, but instead gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay out and listen.

He liked a heads-up.

Outside, the dog barked. Roger grinned. Dogs were all right. He crept out of the closet. From the window, he could see down into the front yard. The dog was big, with dark, shaggy hair, and she was tied but by a fairly long rope.

Someone thumped against his door, and Roger jumped, but that someone did not come in. "Maureen! Mark!" she yelped in the next room. "Lookit _this!_"

Roger shivered. He needed to get _out_, get _away_ from all the noise. He had lost his tolerance for it, enveloped so often in his beloved quiet, that he no longer had the patience for it.

Roger slipped out the door. He made no efforts to hide himself: no one noticed, anyway, as he slunk down the back stairs and out into the yard. From there Roger picked his way to the front of the house.

"Hey, puppy."

She barked a happy greeting and jumped up, smacking her heavy paws on Roger's shoulders. He laughed, hugged her and ruffled her fur.

"Hey. I'm Roger."

He let her lick and sniff him all over, acquainting herself with this person as a friend.

Roger didn't know how it happened, exactly. He sat on the ground and scratched the puppy (well she _seemed_ like one, for all she was his size) behind the ears. And he sort of remembered burying his face in her neck.

The next thing Roger knew, he was waking up from a nice nap, an arm around the dog and a paw on his cheek, and someone was standing on the steps, watching him.

_To be continued!_

Review? Pretty please?


	4. The Kiss

**Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.**

Barely two minutes had passed before Mark thudded heavily down the stairs. He looked glumly from Joanne to Alison to Collins, pushed his glasses up on his nose and said, "Can I take the dog for a walk? _Please_?" Something in his tone hinted of lipstick and nail polish being brought out upstairs.

"Go ahead," Benny said.

For a moment Mark stood on the front steps, watching Roger. The younger boy had dirt ground into the faded knees of his jeans, and he was lying on the ground, fingers deep in Evita's fur, as the akita, nearly his size, kissed his face. Mark grinned. He felt a stirring…

"Hi. I'm Roger."

Mark was brought back from his thoughts in time to take the outstretched hand. "Mark," he said. "I was just going to take Evita for a walk. Her name's Evita, the dog. Would you like to come?"

Roger nodded.

The boys walked for half an hour, chatting mostly about Mark. He babbled pleasantly, "I think I'd like to do some sort of visual arts major. You know, I take photographs." As evidence, he held up the Polaroid hanging from a strap around his neck. "I used to shoot everything. Now I only want to take the right shots, only I'm not sure which those are."

"So, you'll study in college?" Roger asked, directing Mark's attention to the original topic once more.

Mark nodded. "Mhm. I think I might like Sarah Lawrence. I've considered Bard but it's so out of the way, and I'm not sure that's an environment I'd enjoy confining myself to. Of course USC has one of the best film schools in the country, but I'm not sure I'm really ready for motion. I'd like to be, some time, but if I can't get the perfect shot in one tiny moment, how can I get a series of perfect shots?"

"Mhm," Roger said, to show that he was listening. Evita snuffled ahead of them, but Roger kept a tight hold on the leash.

"Anyway, I tried setting shots up over the summer. There's less time during the school year. I really _hate_ Mr. Ursini, he gives a ridiculous amount of busywork like we aren't already all working on our college applications."

Roger was only fourteen, and so not yet beginning the application process. As he ambled along, listening to Mark chattered, he almost wished he could go to college, when the time came for him.

"…like I didn't know that, which upsets me. I mean, it's an insult to them, isn't it, thinking we're not prepared? Truth to be told I—ouch." Mark reached down and scratched at his leg. The weather was warm enough for short pants, so Mark had taken advantage. "Ow, ow!" He scratched harder.

"Stop," Roger told him. He inspected the area. "You'll make it worse." Up ahead was a small creak and a bridge. "Come on. I'll race you. Come on, Evvy!" and he took off. Evita gave a happy yip and kept pace with Roger, while Mark lagged behind somewhat.

When he reached the stream, Roger left the path. He looped Evita's leash around a support and dunked his hands into the water. A shiver passed down Roger's spine: this water was cold!

He emerged with a double-handful of rich mud from the bed. Mark, by this time standing on the bridge, faltered. "What're you doing?" he asked.

"It'll help your legs," Roger told him. Mark shook his head, though the look of pain on his face suggested that he need_ something_ to ease the pain. "Come on. Turn round."

Grudgingly, because he had no better option, Mark did. "Brr!" The mud was none too warm, either, as Roger slathered it across the backs of Mark's calves, but Mark had to admit that the pain ebbed.

"Thanks," he said. A clump of mud peeled off his leg and shat onto his socks.

"You can wash it off now," Roger said, suppressing giggles.

They walked more, and Mark talked more. The cold left his legs as they dried off, mercifully; the weather was unseasonably warm, though clouds not too far off suggested that might change soon. A couple of little league soccer teams were walking past one another, giving the obligatory "good game" handslaps.

Strange to play today, Roger thought, but then with these leagues they were usually arranged by parents, and the parents must have consented.

"How about some ice cream?" Roger asked.

"What?"

He pointed to a vendor. "I'm kind of hungry. You want anything?"

"Oh… yeah, sure."

They tied Evita to the monkey bars and settled on the wobbly bridge, Roger with a Phish Stick ice cream bar and Mark with a sherbet popsicle shaped like Tweety Bird's head.

"So where do you think you'll go, if not Sarah Lawrence?"

It was about then he began to lose it, as Mark shrugged and stared off at something Roger could never, would never see, and he spoke of New York University and the University of Southern California and Kenyon in Gambier, his lips moving raw pink, his spine straighter.

_No._

But then... _yes._ Roger had learned to trust his instincts, he wasn't fool enough to deny that... _Boobs._ Yes, the thought interested him: unfortunately it did nothing to ease the swelling in his trousers. He wasn't a fag, Roger knew that he wasn't a fag. He definitely liked girls.

But he also liked the wet baby pink mouth in its half-smile, wistful eyes unable to see him, rendering him invisible. And so, while he was invisible, Roger leaned forward and mixed chocolate-fudge-marshmallow-caramel with sherbet.

_to be continued!_


	5. The Kiddie Table

**Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson; "Commander Cuckoo-Bananas" is a Simpsons line**

"Boys!"

Collins stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up to the hallway though he could not see the door to Roger's room, not from that angle. Ever since coming home from walking Evita, they had been barricaded in Roger's room, talking and laughing about who-knows-what. Collins had forbidden anyone to barge in on them, despite Mimi's whines that she wanted to meet her new cousin, Maureen's boredom, and Joanne's concern that Mark at least needed to be polite and he was not doing that at the moment. But Collins had just shaken his head. "Mark knows how to be polite," he had said, "but I haven't heard Roger laugh since we brought him here."

Now it was time for dinner, and happy as Collins was that Roger had found a friend, family dinner was practically the only Thanksgiving tradition they kept.

"Boys, come on, we're eating!"

There was a pause, a series of thumps and chuckles, then Mark called, "Okay, we're on our way!" and the door slammed shut again. A few moments later it was pulled open and the boys raced down the stairs, grinning.

"Hey, Roger." Collins reached out to tousle his hair, but the moment he did Roger flinched and dropped his smile.

"Hi," he murmured.

Collins retrieved his hand, trying not to be offended and failing miserably. "Come on," he said. "Our Thanksgiving may not be exactly what you're used to."

That was an understatement. Their idea of a Thanksgiving meal was fresh bread, juicy lasagna and salad. There was plenty of food, but, as Benny observed, no meat.

"There's supposed to be turkey," he grumbled.

"Here." Angel pushed a bowl towards. "The potato salad has bacon in it. There's meat for you," she retorted with a dagger-hidden-under-the-pillow tone.

"Bacon isn't turkey."

Angel agreed. "But it's better," she argued.

"That's not the point."

"Would you prefer tofurkey?"

"No."

"Then hush up or I'll make you sit at the kiddie table."

Roger, who had slipped into a chair beside Mark, froze. "There's a kiddie table?" he asked quietly.

"Nah, Aunt Angel's just joking," Mark assured him. He noticed that Roger had surreptitiously grabbed a piece of bread and hidden it in his lap. "There's plenty to go around," he said, but didn't push the matter.

When everyone had settled at the table and begun serving themselves, or their children in Alison's case, there was a small protest from the newcomer, "Shouldn't we say grace?"

The table fell silent, nearly everyone giving Alison curious looks. Roger bowed his head. He had said graces before, in a Catholic home he was placed in for a while. He shivered. He hadn't liked those nuns very much.

"All right." Those who had been around for more than a year hid grins. Collins, Angel, Benny, Joanne, Mark and Maureen called, "Grace!" then returned to grabbing food. Roger helped himself to some of everything and began shoveling it into his mouth.

"Don't rush," Mark murmured. "You'll make yourself sick."

"How long d'we have?" Roger returned through a mouthful of lasagna and fresh bread.

Mark shrugged. "Dinner usually lasts a couple of hours, since it's everyone. Chatting and stuff. Then there's dessert, and if you're hungry later you can heat something up. How long are you used to?" he asked.

Roger shrugged back. "Varies." But he slowed down, chewing his lasagna completely before taking a bite of the potato salad. That he had kept to a small amount, since Angel didn't seem too fond of it.

"So how's business, Ben?" Collins asked.

"It's great, actually," Benny replied. "Booming."

Maureen kicked Mark under the table.

"Nice to be free," Collins said, but he made it sound like an insult.

"It is," Benny retorted.

Mark whispered to Roger, "Benny votes Republican." He kicked Maureen, hard. She yelped.

"Mark, don't swear at the table," Collins said, mock-serious, and Mark laughed.

"Okay, okay, who wants to start the thankful-fors?" Angel asked. She explained to Roger, "We go around the table and say what we're thankful for. Mimi?"

"Ummm… I'm thankful 'cause we got a dog this year," she announced.

Benny named a business deal he had closed and, to Roger's surprise, Collins threw bits of bread at him. Off Benny's hurt look, he added, "Congratulations, man. And you can vote however you want, just don't expected a Christmas card if we get stuck again with Commander Cuckoo-Bananas."

"We live in a blue state, honey," Angel reminded him.

Joanne safely decided she was thankful for family, Maureen for fluffy kittens (as she had said every year since she was small). When Angel decreed that the thing she was most thankful for that year (not a rule, but her particular dramatic flare) was Roger, the boy ducked and bit his lip, hard. Collins agreed with Angel and added that next year he would be **really** thankful if the Democrats took the White House, and preferably Congress, too, but maybe that was pushing it.

Roger's teeth pressed harder against his lip. It was only Mark before him, and what was he supposed to say in front of all these people? What could he say that no one would mind? Politics was out of the question, since either Benny or Collins would be angry.

The real difficulty was that although Roger knew he could be facetious, as Maureen had been, he also knew what Angel wanted to hear. Roger pushed his teeth down harder. He wanted to say it, too, but… but…

"I'm thankful for my SAT score, the mushrooms in the lasagna this year, and Tweety Bird ice cream," Mark said.

"I…" Roger jumped in immediately, then felt his mouth go dry. He reached for his glass and drank a gulp of water. Stupid! Stupid, thinking he would have anything to say! But he knew just what they wanted to hear. Couldn't they have warned him? They all knew in advance!

"I'm thankful for…"

And why should he take part in this, anyway?! It wasn't as though he'd be around so much longer! This was a family thing and he wasn't a part of their family, not really, just for now, just until they grew tired of him.

But even if it was just for a little while, there were Mark's hands on his skin and Mark's lips on his and the fires in Mark greeting the fires in Roger, those feelings and fantasies and the wish, wish, wish that Roger could tell him. There was Mark.

"I'm thankful," Roger whispered. That was enough, wasn't it? Under the table, Mark's hand found Roger's and gaze it a little squeeze.

_To be continued!_

Please review?


	6. The Story

**Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson**

After the coffee and sweets had been eaten, the younger members of the family were sent upstairs to brush their teeth and change into pajamas. Something in the jostling at the sink, the multitude of far too many elbows and knees and the littlest one straining to pop up and spit into the basin, eased a knot in Roger's chest.

Of course, he still plainly did not fit in. Both Mark and Maureen wore soft, plaid flannels, and Mimi wore a nightgown. Roger had an old T-shirt and sweatpants that were getting to be a bit too short for him. And when the others stampeded downstairs to say goodnight to their parents, Roger hung back.

"Aren't you coming?" Mark asked. When Roger hesitated, he said, "It would mean a lot to Angel and Collins, I bet."

I don't owe them anything, Roger thought, but he followed Mark down the stairs.

Mimi settled herself on her mother's lap. She obviously meant to fall asleep there rather than in a strange bed. Maureen hugged her parents and aunts and uncles, and Mark did the same. He paused for a moment and spoke with Collins.

Roger hung back, leaning against the doorjamb. After his brief chat Mark trotted over to him and said, "Collins said I could stay in your room tonight."

A hint of a smile played at Roger's lips, but it faded when Collins followed the boys upstairs, though he explained, "I don't think either of you knows where the sleeping bags are… you don't mind, do you, Mark?"

"He can have the bed," Roger mumbled.

Collins tossed a sleeping bag to Mark, who caught it and said, "I can't kick you out, Roger."

"I'm offering." He glanced at Collins. "Take the bed."

"You two can sort it out yourselves," Collins decided. He hugged Mark once more and kissed his forehead; Roger stayed back, his face stony. "'Night, boys."

When they were alone, Mark shut the door and said, "I can't take your bed, Roger. I'll sleep on the floor."

Roger just said, "Okay."

"Collins and Angel said they'd get you new pajamas," Mark added. "You get in bed first, I don't want to be stepped on."

Roger crawled under the covers, then Mark flicked off the light. They didn't speak as Mark unzipped his sleeping bag and settled in it, then zipped the bag up again. Their breathing deepened to match and fill the room.

Mark broke the silence that wasn't a silence. "How come you don't let them hug you?" he asked.

"I don't like being touched," Roger said. "Not by people who aren't family or lovers. It's not right."

"Collins and Angel _are_ family," Mark replied.

Roger was silent for a long moment after that. From downstairs came a burst of laughter: the adults, conversation lubricated by the copious amounts of food they had swallowed and glasses of wine, were enjoying themselves.

"Were you adopted?" Roger wanted to know. Everyone knew that he was, since he had lived with Collins and Angel for only a few months. Roger himself had been a fosterling so many years, he no longer thought twice about it. "Is that why you have a black mother?"

"No," Mark told him. "My dad's white, like me and Maureen."

"Is he dead?"

"No, they're just divorced."

"Do you mind?" Roger asked.

"Not really," Mark answered honestly. The boys instinctively kept their voices low, adding an air of intimacy to their conversation. "They parted on pretty good terms, actually. And it's not like Mo and I don't see Dad. We do."

"So how come they're not married?" Roger asked.

Mark shifted, searching for a more comfortable spot on the floorboards. "My mom's a lesbian," he said.

"Look, you don't have to tell me--"

"No, she's really a lesbian," Mark insisted.

Roger leaned over the side of the bed. "You serious?"

"I'm serious," Mark said, and scowled when Roger laughed. "Are your parents both…?"

"Dead," Roger said.

"I'm sorry."

"Like shit."

A few drops of rain fell. Light flew into the room as a car passed, slowly, on the street.

"Roger?" Mark asked. Wind rustled to leaves on the tree in the front yard. "How did they die?"

When Roger answered, he sounded as though he was trying not to cry. "They just did," he said.

"Rog--"

"Nevermind!" Roger snapped.

For a moment Mark lay in the dark, quiet, straining to pick out the voices of his family below. In the next room, his sister was snoring softly. "When I was small," Mark said quietly, letting the darkness swallow his words, "I used to make up stories. I would make up stories where I would have these adventures… one of my favorites," he admitted, blushing, though no one saw, "was that I was a prince. And there was usually an evil princess and I was supposed to marry her, but in the end I destroyed her."

Then he listened to the scorn he had always imagined meeting this announcement, until Roger said, quietly, "You can be the prince."

"Who will you be?" Mark asked.

"I'll be the young slave who captivates you at the market. You see me penned with the others and you're fascinated," Roger narrated.

Mark took up the thread of the story, "I can't stop thinking about you, though we move on, to the point that I return later in the day--"

"Only to find," Roger interrupted, "that I had already been purchased!"

"And by one of the cruelest nobles in all the land," Mark decided, too caught up in the story to really consider what sort of tale he was telling, "who would use you for his bed until he tired of you, and then work you or beat you to death."

A number of factors at work produced the gruesome tale. Mark's frustration and inability to lash out at his hypercompetitive, controlling high school environment contributed, and Roger's feeling of futility towards his own life. Their repressed teenage libidos moved things along, and the fact that neither had grasped the concept of subtlety. Mark understood it visually and Roger in music, but in storytelling both were subtle as a knock on the head.

As the story progressed, Mark tried to buy Roger and failed. Roger managed to avoid mistreatment by his master, but only by ducking again and again out of tricky situations. He finally lost after he and his noble-master, who had no name, went to court and Mark humiliated the noble, who took it out on Roger.

Mark rescued Roger.

"What did he do to you?" Mark wanted to know.

"He hit me," Roger said, "with his belt, his hands, whatever was nearby." There was no question in either boy's mind whether this was a fictitious creation. Returning quickly to fiction, "I manage to make it to your room, with your help, and then I collapse."

The story continued that Mark cut away Roger's clothes. He rinsed and bound any place that was bleeding. Luckily none of Roger's bones had broken.

Mark kept the room clear of anyone but the healers who visited to tend to Roger. Once Mark had learned how, only he was allowed in the room. Roger slept for almost an entire day. When his eyes opened, Mark helped him sit up and made him drink some broth. Roger was asleep before he could speak, but he woke a few hours later to pee, and Mark gave him more food and this time they spoke.

Slowly, as Roger's body healed, the boys began to kiss and touch, Roger thinking Mark was a healer and Mark keeping his identity secret.

"Were the stories always like this?" Roger asked, breaking the mood somewhat. He was no longer tired.

Mark considered. "Not really," was his first impression. "I always got rid of the girl," he admitted, "but I never got so far as meeting the boy."

"When did you know?"

"I guess…" Mark considered for a moment. "I took Hebrew school classes with this girl… we made out together. I didn't like it. That was my test, when I was twelve. Hey, Roger?"

"Yeah?"

"Earlier you said that… you don't like to be touched except by family or lovers."

"Mhm."

"Have you had many lovers?"

Roger chewed his lip before admitting, "No. I had a thing with a girl in one of the homes, but…"

"Did you have sex with her?"

"I was thirteen," Roger said.

In the lull, leaves whispered on the trees. Cars drove by, distant. Maureen snored in the next room, but no discussion came from downstairs. As the boys told their story, the adults had gone to bed.

Mark checked his watch. It was one a.m. "I've never had a lover," he said.

"Have you ever had a boyfriend before?" Roger asked.

Mark considered this. The short answer was that no, he had not. Rain pattered against the sidewalk and wind rustled leaves on the trees.

Mark climbed up into Roger's bed and snuggled close against him. "Are you my boyfriend?" he asked quietly. "Did you mean it when you kissed me?"

Facing the wall, Roger said, equally quiet, "I meant it."

"So it's okay if I touch you?"

"Yes."

"Why do you sleep in only a T-shirt? Aren't you cold?"

"No." He had been, but the heat trapped under the blankets warmed him, and his sweatpants were far too small to be comfortable.

It bothered Roger, at first. It bothered him and he knew precisely why, anger boiling deep inside him at the hypocrisy as Mark's fingers explored his body. He didn't, couldn't enjoy it, he just lay there and let Mark get on with it.

Then the fires in Roger, buried deep where he had confined them time and again, flicked at the nearness. Where he had thought only burned coal remained a flame lapped, then a blaze.

For some moments Roger had felt Mark's erection against him. He just hadn't cared. Now he did. Now the closeness, the nearness, Mark's hands against Roger's chest, now it meant something. Compassion chipped at his defenses. This was not what it had been with the girl. This was Mark, caring about Roger, in all that beautiful hypocrisy of loves.

Roger's breathing grew shallow. The flames within him found the same flame not millimeters away, the fire in Roger calling to the fire in Mark.

As something unfamiliar flooded his mind and Roger's consciousness ceded to passion, his lips moved around the shape of a single word. That word was namaste.

_To be continued..._


	7. The Dirty Story

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playing with the characters.

Angel sighed, listening to the rain pound outside. She squirmed impossibly closer to Collins, the sound suggesting cold. Down the hall, she heard Roger and Mark laughing.

"What do boys talk about?" she asked.

"Ninety percent of the time, things relating to the pelvic area," Collins replied sleepily. "Comic books. Cowboys. I don't know, it's been a while."

"He needs new pajamas," Angel murmured.

"He needs new everything," Collins replied. "Do you want to take him shopping?"

Angel immediately rejected the idea. She had been a woman from day one, regardless of gender at birth, and had no sense for what a teenage boy needed. "You should take him."

Collins laughed wryly. "Ang, he won't stay in the room with me for five minutes. It's easy, you buy him jeans, corduroys, shirts and underwear. Clothes are clothes."

"That's such a male thing to say."

"When last I looked…"

"All the more reason for you to take Roger shopping."

Collins bit back the response that he had been her idea. Angel had wanted a baby, and that was fine. Collins didn't mind children, outside of large groups. When Angel had seen Roger and learned about his past, of course she was drawn to the tragic boy, determined to help him, and Collins just couldn't bring himself to point out that maybe what Roger needed wasn't help so much as love, and love not for the scars he bore but for who he was.

Instead, Collins ceded, "I'll take him shopping, on one condition."

"Which is?"

"He agrees to it."

They both knew that was unlikely to happen in the near future.

"Overall," Collins said, "it was a really nice Thanksgiving, don't you think?"

* * *

"Why don't you take any pictures? You're always carrying around that camera."

"I only want to preserve perfect moments."

The light sprang into being with a dull click. From the small lamp by the bed, rays of light dropped over Mark, Roger, and the books sharing surface area with the lamp. Mark unfolded his glasses and settled them on the his nose.

Roger cast a hand over his eyes. "What did you do that for?" he murmured blearily.

Mark grinned impishly. "The better to see you with, my dear."

"Oh, that's such a dirty story."

Mark's brows drew together. "Little Red Riding Hood?" he asked, perplexed.

Roger nodded. "In the end, the wolf eats the granny."

"Yeah," Mark said, "so?" Roger only raised his eyebrows. "Ew! Roger!" Mark gave him a playful shove. "That's gross!"

"I know!" Roger said through chuckles. "Not at all appropriate for children, is it?"

When he had finished laughing, Mark asked, "Can I see you?"

Roger nodded. "You can see me right now," he said.

"I mean…" Mark swallowed. "I want to see _just_ you," he said.

With his boyfriend's naked body on display before him, Mark gulped. He was getting an erection just looking.

Roger had kicked the blankets aside, and now he looked at Mark, unsure. He had never done this before. He had been a participant, he had been scrutinized and judged with unmerciful eyes, but he had never been looked at like this, like an exhibit in a museum.

Mark traced the mean scar on Roger's left shoulder. Roger's pulse quickened. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

"I don't want to talk about it."

He touched one of many scars on Roger's hip. "Or that," Roger said.

Mark moved his fingers inwards. He traced the sharp curve of Roger's hip. Roger was an innie, Mark noticed. He was glad for that. Something about outties was just off-putting. His stomach dipped and quivered; he wasn't exactly muscular, but Mark saw by Roger's body that he was not physically weak. His ribs were lightly traced by his skin.

Mark's fingers dipped down into heat and hair. "Can we talk about this?" he asked, flirting. Roger moaned deep in his throat. Mark gave him a smile. "Then again," he said, "actions speak louder than words."

_To be continued!_

Reviews would be loved... pretty please?


	8. The Bet

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playing with the characters. Ad characters belong to their respective campaigns.

Benny left early the following morning.

"You're sure we can't convince you to stay?" Collins asked. "I won't make any more Republican jokes."

Benny laughed. "We _both_ know you're not capable of keeping that promise." Mimi was asleep on the couch, curled up under a blanket and sucking her thumb. Benny shook her awake.

"Mama," she whimpered, then rolled over and slept. Benny shrugged. He carried her out to the car; she'd be asleep again in moments, anyway. The dog _arf_ed, then hopped into the car and settled himself on the floor.

Final good-byes were exchanged, a message of love left for Joanne, and the engine sputtered to life.

"Now Roger and Mark will have to think up a new excuse for wandering off to make out," Angel murmured. She gulped coffee.

Collins shook his head. "No way," he said.

Angel grinned. "Oh, yes." With Benny and his family gone, they had returned indoors and settled on the couch. "I looked in on them this morning. They're in the same bed."

"That does not mean they're…" Collins trailed off. "Mark probably had a nightmare or something."

Angel pointed out that, "Mark is seventeen," and Collins shrugged, unconvinced. "Does it bother you?" Angel asked. "If Roger is gay, is that a problem for you?"

"Why should it be?" Collins asked.

"I don't know. Why don't you want him to be?"

Collins considered for a long moment before answering. "Roger can be whatever he wants," he said. "I just don't see the benefit in our leaping to conclusions about him. Maybe Roger isn't our--" he carefully avoided saying 'your', though both knew precisely what he meant "—idea of a perfect child. Ang?"

"Yes?"

"He's not a vegetarian," Collins told her, slow and solemn, as though this was the most important news in the world. "And if he's not gay, that's okay, too. It just seems foolish to look for signs."

"Hm." Angel was about to ask, affectionately, how he could consider a child as calmly as he might a math problem, when they were interrupted by a clatter from the kitchen.

Collins stood. "Well, he's up," he remarked. "Ask him yourself."

Roger dunked his hands into the warm, soapy water and began washing a plate. Some of the washing-up had been started last night, but the bulk of it remained. Roger scrubbed the plate until the sponge squeaked in protest, then he rinsed it and set it aside to dry.

A flash of light exploded around him as he began to wash a second plate. Roger glanced at the stairs and grinned. Mark was holding a freshly snapped Polaroid photograph between two fingers.

"This is a perfect moment, huh?" Roger asked.

"Yeah," Mark replied. "Great lighting."

Roger chuckled. He set down the plate and sponge, walked over to the stairs and kissed Mark. Mark threaded his fingers through Roger's hair and prolonged the kiss, probing his tongue into Roger's mouth. It was Roger who broke away. "I need to get to the dishes," he said, showing his sudsy hands as evidence. Mark gave Roger a light spank as he headed for the sink.

When Collins joined them, Roger glanced hurriedly at the stairs, but Mark sat there, blocking his exit.

"Why don't you stay, Roger?" Collins asked.

"'mIwasjus'gonna," he mumbled. His muscles had gone taut.

"Mark, you sleep okay on the floor last night?"

Mark blushed before lying, "Oh, yeah… yeah, it was fine. It's a good floor."

Drat, I owe Angel five bucks, Collins thought. Maybe it had been a silly bet. He set a pot of coffee to boil and pulled out the milk. "Do you drink coffee?" he asked, pausing as he retrieved a mug from the cupboard.

"I do," Mark said.

"Roger?"

"'mmmno," Roger mumbled, his eyes locked on the dishes in the sink.

"Do you want some milk or something?"

"No thanks, not thirsty," Roger muttered so quickly the words blurred. Mark glanced at Collins questioning. He shrugged.

Mark stood. "I just realized that I… I'm cold," he lied weakly. "I'll just go get a sweater from upstairs." He scurried up the stairs.

Roger remained at the sink.

"Stop that for a minute, would you, Rog?" Collins asked. Roger stopped. He stood at the sink, staring hard at the faucet. "Did you enjoy last night?"

"Y's."

"That's good. You seemed to get on well with Mark."

"Mark's nice."

"Are you a vegetarian, Roger?" Collins asked. He would keep this pace, he decided, until the coffee was ready, then give the boy a rest.

Roger bit his lip. He wasn't, not really, but it seemed that Collins and Angel were vegetarians. "I… vegetables're good," he said, not answering the question.

"Yeah? What's your favorite food? I realize we haven't had many meals with you." This was mostly due to Roger's reluctance to join them at the table; after the first two weeks, they only called him once and not really expecting him to respond.

Cheeseburgers! Roger thoughts. With mushrooms and bacon on 'em, and nice crispy fries.

But he couldn't very well say that, not after having led Collins to believe he was a vegetarian. Roger mentally ran through all the vegetarian foods he knew. He liked macaroni and cheese, but not enough that he would want to eat it every night, or even once a week. Macaroni salad was all right… but he couldn't stand normal salads, the type with lettuce.

"Pizza." Everyone liked pizza, right?

"Hm. Maybe we'll get some pizza tonight. I know I don't want to cook, and I doubt Angel will either, after yesterday." There was no question there, and Collins knew Roger wouldn't talk again without being asked a question. "Do you cook?"

Roger paused. He didn't, really, but surely anyone could follow a recipe, and he liked it here. It was a damn sight better than most of the homes he'd been placed in. If he could cook, he was useful, and he would be kept around.

"I can cook," Roger lied. "Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom," and he raced upstairs.

Angel stepped into the kitchen. "So?" she asked.

Collins kissed her. "I owe you five dollars," he said. "Should we tell Joanne?"

"Tell me what?" asked Joanne.

Angel glanced at Collins. "They found the beef," he said. "The Hamburgler stole it."

Joanne just rolled her eyes. When her brother was being silly, she knew, there was no getting a straight answer out of him. If she said as much, she knew he would retort that he couldn't give a straight answer, anyway, since he curved.

"Mommy?" Maureen stood in the doorway, tugging on the end of her braid.

"What's up, baby?"

"Ummm…" Maureen glanced at Angel and Collins, then announced, "I need a tampon."

"Right. I have some in my purse." Joanne left the room, Maureen hot on her heels.

Collins' coffee was finally done. Relieved, he drank.

_To be continued!_

...review? Pretty pretty please?


	9. The C

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

Warning: There are a few OC's in this chapter. They don't play big roles, but they are necessary (yeah, Roger _does_ have to have teachers...)

Sound crowded around him; sound, and familiar gestures. Parents' expressions told Collins how their children were doing in class. Most were angry, little to his surprise. He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets as he stalked between the bungalows, through a pool of light.

"…si era usando su cabeza…"

Collins shook his head and repressed a smile. Cold nipped at his ears, diverting some of his attention, but not enough to keep him from being amused at the play he had seen so many times before. The only difference was that he was on the other side of it.

A couple of kids raced past him, a pudgy white girl with pigtails chasing a tall black boy who laughed at her. The girl had the decency to call, "Sorry!" at Collins over her shoulder, before turning back to the boy. He had disappeared.

"This isn't over, fiend!" she cried into the darkened campus.

Collins whistled sharply at her.

"Who're you?"

"Concerned parent," Collins joked. "I'm a parent."

"And your kid…?"

"Is named Roger," he supplied, wondering precisely why he was answering to a teenager. That was the problem with high school kids. Every day in the same place, no concept of the real world, it didn't aggravate their egos, it caused them. By the fourth year they knew the ins and outs of every inch of campus. "Shouldn't you be with your mom?" he asked.

"I was just playing with my brother," she replied, or didn't.

Collins raised an eyebrow. "Your brother's black?" he asked.

"Your son's white?" the girl retorted.

"Yoink!" This came from the boy, who had snuck up behind her and now tugged one of her pigtails.

"Goodbye, Mister!" the girl called, and she raced after the boy, both squeaking laughter.

Collins shook his head. Two seventeen-year-olds, at his guess, behaved like five-year-olds. Why couldn't Roger be like that?

Once more, he shook his head. He knew precisely why Roger didn't behave like that, and he knew that if he had wanted a happy, well-adjusted child he would have insisted on adopting a baby. They could easily have sheltered a five-year-old. They had _chosen_ Roger.

Collins stepped into one of the bungalows, a room filled with single-seater desks. The walls were papered with colorful political posters. Collins smiled. Some were hand-made, and some quite clever. He particularly liked the "Salon" image, where Voltaire was having his hair cut.

"Hi."

Collins looked up. A short woman, maybe forty years old, with silver-streaked blond hair offered her hand. "I'm Missus Morrison."

"Hey." Collins shook her hand. "Tom Collins, I'm Roger's, um…"

Morrison nodded. Collins took a deep breath. He had never before attended a parent conference, at least not as a parent. He hadn't been to one, in fact, since his own, yet here he stood, about to explain to the smudge on his foster-son's otherwise spotless report card that _yes,_ he _knew_ Roger was not having an easy time socially, and he would help him bring up that grade.

_If he'll speak to me,_ Collins thought wryly.

"He's a great kid," Morrison began, almost before Collins could begin a syllable. "He's got a great sense of humor."

"He… barely speaks," Collins answered, frowning. It wasn't that hearing his son, even foster-son praised didn't make him want to grin, especially after the slew of "needs-a-bit-of-help" remarks so artfully condescending to him.

Morrison nodded. "I know," she said, "but he gets it. He thinks funny things. You know those smiles he gets."

Collins didn't know, but he felt a sudden, strong urge to. "His grade," he said. Roger's report card had impressed him. Collins had known a few fosterlings among his own students, the majority infused with and inspired by observed instances of similar children's bad habits. He hadn't expected more than a C or two, most, on Roger's report card, so the listing of A's and B's had been a welcome surprise.

In European History, though, Roger had only a C.

Morrison waved it off. "It's nothing," she said. "He had trouble adjusting, is having, of course. I assigned Sophie to tutor him. I don't know if she's doing that, but personality-wise things seem to be working out."

_Brilliant!_ Every other teacher had reported Roger as quiet, easy to overlook, isolated, even standoffish. "They're friends?" Collins asked. "Roger never tells us anything," he apologized, realizing that if he didn't know enough it might seem that he was not attentive enough it might appear to be neglect, and they could lose Roger.

And that would break Angel's heart.

Early in their relationship, Collins spent a lot of his time trying not to break Angel's heart. Lately he had found himself less of a threat. Collins would never break Angel's heart, but it was stunning how many things in the world were not so caring to someone with so beautiful and pure a heart.

"Um… I wouldn't say they're friends," Morrison admitted carefully. "Mr. Collins, Roger's been here for two months and teenagers are… usually rabid. Socially, he's not magical, he'll find his niche. Or, worst case scenario, he doesn't. It happens. As for grades, Roger's a clever kid. He'll bring it up to a B."

"Well… great." Collins offered his hand again. "Thank you," he said. _I needed to hear that._

When he got home, Collins found Angel in the basement. They had set up something of a studio down there, a room strewn with random fabric samples, boxes lined neatly with spools of thread, and a Kenmore sewing machine loud enough to wake the dead and knock them out again.

"Hey, baby." Collins spoke over the noise of the sewing machine.

Angel finished a hem and turned off the power to the machine. "Hey," she said. She pulled free the garment and snipped the threads. "So how's our son doing in school?"

"He's brilliant," Collins told her. "And his history teacher loves him."

Angel smiled. She took the report card from Collins. "Aaw. Let's put it on the 'fridge."

"Or we could just give it to Roger, tell him we're proud of him and leave it at that."

That Angel did not like. "Why not make a big deal out of it?" she asked. "This is the first thing we've had to celebrate about him—"

"Since him," Collins interrupted. He took her hands gently. "I don't think Roger is ready for a big deal right now," he said. "He can barely look you in the eye, he _can't_ look at me. We have to go at his pace right now, baby." He kissed her. "And celebrate amongst ourselves."

Angel laughed. "Don't think I don't know when you're manipulating me," she warned. She stood on tiptoe to return his kiss. "And go tell your son you're proud of him."

_To be continued!_

review? Pretty please?


	10. The First Lesson

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with the characters.

They didn't see Roger for a week.

There was clear proof of his presence: in the morning, they often found dishes done, the refrigerator organized, floors swept, tables cleaned, random stacks of Collins' grading neatly organized and the grades entered in the gradebook. On one astounding night Roger managed to find the key to a multiple choice test. He graded the tests, entered the grades, stacked and paperclipped them and replaced them without waking anyone.

With Angel, he had slightly less success. Her sewing room _belonged_ a mess. Every time Roger snuck down there—every time he managed to fight off the racing pulse and tightened throat cause by such dark, dark darkness—he flipped on the light and found very little to organize.

Once, just once, he gathered up every bolt of fabric and organized them. First he organized the solids by their respective locations in the rainbow, reds (and pinks) going lightest to darkest, then oranges darkest to lightest, and so on.

Roger bit his lip and smiled when he had finished. Pink could be darker than red. He hadn't known that.

Then there were prints to organize. Roger based these on background color, trying not to be too distracted by the beautiful butterflies stitched onto a deep red cloth, the silvery stars on blue wisps of fabric so thin and loose he could see through it.

"We have to do something about Roger," Angel decided after a week.

Collins nodded and forced himself back to reality. "Agreed," he murmured. "And you don't have to be that manipulative…"

"Don't be silly, I _wanted_ to have sex." Angel flopped back on the pillow and smiled contentedly—a rather astounding tribute to precisely how much she enjoyed each and every aspect of sexual intercourse. "You would've agreed, anyway. Do you think he's obsessive-compulsive?"

"No. I think his terror-compulsive."

"What's he afraid of?"

"Us." Then Collins remembered the morning Angel brought up the topic of Roger's pajamas. That morning, Roger had actually given her a smile, raised his eyes and said "thank you". "Me," he amended.

Angel shifted to cuddle up to him. "He's only shy," she soothed.

"No, he's not," Collins said. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead. "Well, he is shy, but it's more than that. He's afraid of me."

"He has no _reason_—"

"Sure he does, we just don't know it. Does it matter, Ang?" When she said nothing, he continued, "I saw him yesterday."

"You did?"

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because the moment he saw me he went pale and ran away." _And I thought… maybe we can't take care of this boy._ Collins didn't dare admit that, that even for a moment he had questioned. He sighed. "We have to do something," he said, but withheld speculation as to what.

--

The following day, Angel rolled over ideas as she depressed the peddle on her sewing machine and punched through the seam. Two weeks had passed since Thanksgiving; it was nearly Christmas, and cold. The radiator spat from its space in the corner, where it huddled free of the clutter of Angel's cloths.

She finished the seam, locked it in and snipped off the threads. Angel leaned down to rummage through the pile of pieces at her feet. Somewhere in there was a sleeve, she knew; she'd done the buttons and buttonholes the previous day.

"Aha." Angel lifted the sleeve and straightened it. Now she just needed to—oh. "Hello, Roger."

Roger froze. He turned, stared at Angel, and dropped the bolts he had collected. "Oh," Roger moaned. He knelt and began collecting the bolts again.

"You don't need to do that," Angel said. She thought carefully before speaking again. The wrong word might send the boy fleeing, and this, Angel realized, was the first time he had willingly emerged from his room and been present near her since moving in. "How are you?"

"Fine," Roger mumbled.

"Have you had lunch?" she asked.

Roger nodded.

"Do you like that one, Roger?" Angel asked, noticing the way his hand moved again and again over a bolt of dark blue fabric embroidered with dragonflies. He mumbled something incoherent. Angel sighed. She stood, then knelt near him. "I could make something for you. For Christmas, after all. What would you like?"

Roger shook his head. He struggled to speak, shaking his head as his eyes widened, then at last managed, "N… no… you don't need to…"

She lifted the cloth and held it up against him. "It's nice with your eyes. Or…" She looked around.

"No, please," Roger insisted, his eyes fixed on a bit of cloth behind her. "You don't have to…"

"But I _want_ to," Angel said, in the tone of a little girl altogether too accustomed to having her way. "Or—is it this?" She grabbed a sheet from behind her. Roger looked at his hands so as not to stare. Angel smiled. She didn't ask what he wanted: he wouldn't answer, anyway.

Roger began to stand. "I should go--"

"No, no!" Angel reached out a hand and touched him, pressing down gently on his wrist. Roger sank to the floor again. "Um… you cleaned up in here a few nights ago, didn't you?" Roger nodded. "You have an eye for color."

Roger blushed. "It… is pretty," he murmured.

"I can teach you to sew if you like," she blurted, and immediately regretted it. Of course he wouldn't want to learn that. Boys simply didn't do such things. Even Collins, for all the effort he put to it, had not the least interest.

But Roger only nodded. "That'd be nice," he said.

Angel sat Roger down behind her sewing machine. "Here," she said. She gave him two scraps of fabric. "Just run these through the machine… try to keep it even."

Roger actually managed a few stitches before the fabric bunched and he pressed too hard on the pedal. He jumped away, knocking over the chair. "I'm sorry!" he cried. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't--"

Angel rested a hand on his shoulder. "That's why it's called _learning_, honey." And, carefully, she reversed the fabric out of the machine.

Roger looked at the mess he'd made. "I'm so sorry," he repeated. "I've ruined it!"

"They were only scraps, Roger," Angel soothed. "It's nothing. Roger—look." Because this didn't seem to be calming him at all, Angel rifled through her bag and produced a girl's blouse. She had used some of that flimsy stuff he had noticed the other night over a white base. "See, those are from this."

Roger nodded. "It's very nice," he said. "It's yours?"

"My work," Angel said, running a hand down the front, admiring her own handiwork. "It's for Maureen, for Christmas. You'll get to see Mark again," she added with a wink. Roger's eyes went wide before he stared at the floor. "Roger, would you like to try seaming again?"

He had just opened his mouth to speak when, from the doorway, Collins said, "Hey, Angel—hey, Roger."

Roger stared. He managed a nod and squeak, and when Collins stepped into the room Roger dashed out around him. Collins watched the course of the noise as Roger pounded up the stairs, squeaking and noising and racing away and shutting the door to his bedroom all too quickly.

Angel sighed. "He came out," she said.

Collins shrugged. "Progress is progress," he decided.

_to be continued!_

Hopefully I'll be able to post another chapter this week... but I do have finals right now so be patient! Please!

That said, reviews would be very appreciated. Please on that as well?


	11. The Suspension

Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's

As she walked into the school, Angel fingered the plastic card in her pocket. She hadn't driven, but she needed a photo identification and the alternative was a passport.

"Hello." She took her hands out of her pockets and fingered the strap of her purse instead. It had been a few years since Angel stepped foot inside a high school, and the memories were none too pleasant. She addressed a security guard; "I'm looking for my son. The dean called?"

"Down the hall on your right."

"Thank you so much."

Roger was slumped on a bench in the small office; he had a notebook open on his lap, but he was only making half-hearted attempts at mindless doodles. He didn't even look up when Angel walked into the room; if anything, he pulled closer into himself.

"Ms…" The dean began, then paused. It was clearly impossible for Angel to be Roger's biological mother. The two hadn't a single trait in common, except for both being quite obviously human. Angel's hair, skin and eyes were dark while Roger's were light. Her build was more effeminate, svelte though the boy was.

"Collins," Angel supplied. She wondered what the dean would say to see the couple, if she would be able to stop her eyes darting from him to her to Roger and back.

"Right."

Angel received the information as quickly as she could, though all she needed to hear was "fight" and "suspension". She nodded. "Come on." Angel tapped Roger's shoulder. She smiled at him and jerked her head. "Homeward ho."

The bright sunlight stunned his eyes. Roger blinked, feeling as though all his senses had been dulled, as Angel babbled, "It's a pain, really, but what should I have done? So now I'm twice hyphenated." She paused. "I don't think of myself as even _married_," she said. "Nothing's changed, really…"

The monologue kept up until they were in the house. Roger headed for the stairs. "Ah!" Angel called, stopping him. "Don't think so. Come on. Come in the kitchen, have something to eat."

He stood by the counter, near the door, watching her carefully as she made a grilled cheese sandwich. Angel then sat Roger down at the table and instructed him to eat. He wolfed down a quarter of the sandwich in one bite.

"Slow down! You'll make yourself sick!"

Roger looked up briefly, apologetic, wiped a splat of tomato juice off his chin and took another bite. His jaw formed slow circles as he chewed.

"So you had a fight, hm?"

Roger nodded.

"Why?" Angel asked.

Roger said nothing. He took a bite of the sandwich and chewed. The clock ticked. The refrigerator whirred. Roger swallowed. He wiped his mouth. Angel raised her eyebrows, still waiting for an answer.

"He said something," Roger murmured finally.

"What did he say?" Angel asked as gently as she could.

"Things," was the answer Roger gave. He took another bite of the sandwich. "Is he mad at me?"

There was no question in Angel's mind as to who "he" referred to, in this context. She shook her head. "He doesn't know." Yet.

"My report card," Roger said. Angel frowned delicately. "I haven't had a C since seventh grade."

"That's impressive."

Roger took another bite. He chewed, forcing himself to go slowly. "When I was twelve I had a C-average. My dad took the bar out of the towel rack and he…" Roger glanced at Angel. He suppressed a sigh. "He made sure it wouldn't happen again," Roger muttered. He set down the sandwich. Angel was staring, one hand over her open mouth, tears beginning to form in her eyes. "I'd like to go to my room now, please," Roger said quietly.

Angel nodded.

As quietly as possible, Roger rose. He pushed in his chair and headed out of the room, hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

"Roger," Angel called. He turned. She blinked, swallowed and said, "He would never do that. Tom. He would never hurt you."

Roger shook his head. "Men just do," he said quietly, far too resigned.

"Not him."

"A woman will say that while the bruises are fresh," he said.

Angel opened her mouth, but she could think of nothing to say. _It's all right?_ But it wasn't. _You're safe here?_ The bruise on his cheek disagreed. "Roger… you've got two days at home," Angel said. "I'll feel a failure if you can't sew a seam by the end of it."

Roger ventured a tiny smile.

_To be continued!_

Finals are over! Par-tay indeed.

Please review?


	12. The Outcome

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's

"That's good, Roger! Except, you want to sew them face-to-face," Angel said. Roger didn't ask why, but his expression did. "See, if it's a sleeve…" She turned her own sleeve partway inside out to show him.

Roger nodded. He folded on piece of fabric over and ran it through the machine again, did a zigzaggy sort of lock and snipped the threads. He smiled at Angel.

"You'll be better than me soon," she said. "So… do you want me to help you make Christmas gifts this way?"

Roger froze. He was going to be there for Christmas? And… gifts? How could he possibly give anyone a gift? He had no money, hadn't known he would need a job. Was she teasing him? He could maybe give things he had… but what did he have? Some old clothes that didn't barely fit him and _surely_ would fit no one else, and things Angel and Collins had given him, like books in his bedroom when he moved in.

Then… there was… but no. Roger couldn't give away the things in his box.

He bit his lip. He still looked at them, sometimes, at night. He couldn't part with his treasures. And anyway, they wouldn't mean anything to anyone else.

"Christmas?" Roger asked.

"Oh… well you don't have to give anything, honey," Angel soothed. Roger cringed. It was a tone for someone who couldn't help not understanding.

He stood. "Excuse me," Roger murmured. He had spent last Christmas at the McGuires'. The man was a doctor, so he wasn't home much. At least there was that… and it had snowed… and at least they hadn't pretended, like these people…

"Oh." When Roger had gone, not truly awaiting a response, Angel wandered upstairs. She didn't even know what she had said to upset him. The incident somewhat ruined sewing for her.

Collins met her at the head of the stairs. "Hey," he said, and he kissed her. "Isn't he--" indicating the direction Roger had run "—supposed to be in school?"

Angel sighed. She hadn't told him. It was her secret with Roger. If only Collins hadn't skipped his staff meeting that day, the lie would've gone over, too. "Roger was suspended. For two days. He was in a fight."

"Fight—"

"He didn't mean anything by it."

Collins nodded. "Still… I'll have a word with him."

She rested a hand on his shoulder. "I don't think you'd better."

"Well just to be sure--"

"I've spoken with him," Angel said. When Collins opened his mouth again, she insisted, "I'm his parent as much as you are, Thomas. And I've spoken with him. It won't happen again."

He ceded then. "How was your day, baby?"

And Angel smiled hugely. "Brilliant," she said. "Roger helped me make cookies. And he actually ate one. Plus he can sew a straight seam now." Actually there had barely been a moment of Angel's day _not_ spent with Roger: he had appeared at her side that morning and stayed with her through baking, watching part of a film (which they both decided, half an hour in, was too boring to exist), and sewing.

"Hm." Collins dug around in his pocket and handed Angel a crumpled five-dollar bill.

"What's this?" she asked.

"You won the bet," Collins said. "He's _definitely_ gay."

_To be continued..._

Review? Please?


	13. The Name

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with the characters.

Roger knelt by the window, his forehead pressed against the glass. Outside, the yard looked barren. The tree had lost its leaves and the grass no longer grew for the cold, which seemed strange to Roger. Everything was wet… and nothing was growing.

He exhaled a cloud onto the pane. In the condensation, his fingertip traced an 'R'.

Would the dog come again? Roger hoped so. He had like the dog very much. He had liked the nap he took curled up with her. She was so docile. So simple. She accepted him and that was that. Evvy maybe wanted a walk, a scratch, food. But the deepest sleep Roger had had since moving in with these people was when he shared a patch of dirt with the dog.

Mark talked in his sleep.

Roger traced his entire name in slow cursive letters on the windowpane, then exhaled over the letters. His name appeared, messily.

"Roger."

He gasped and turned. Angel stood in the doorway. She was dressed about as brightly as could possibly be in a red skirt with small tree-like shapes sewn into the hem and a white blouse blazing with blue stripes. Even the pink band holding her hair back seemed to scream for attention.

Yet something in her presence was soothing to Roger's racing heart.

"You cleaned up last night," she said.

"Y-yes," Roger stammered. "I did," he added, to prove he could speak cleanly.

Angel nodded. She stepped into the room and settled on the bed. The paper bag in her hand she set on her lap. It was the one dull thing about her, and for that, to Roger, the most interesting. "We appreciate," she said, as she often did adopting the plural to include Collins, "that, we really do. But you don't have to do that, Roger."

He shrugged. "I don't mind," he said. He glanced at the open doorway.

The corners of Angel's mouth twitched. "He's out," she said. "It's a tradition of ours."

Roger shook his head. He didn't understand.

"The day before Christmas, Collins invents an errand for himself in the morning and runs out. He's usually gone for about an hour. Then I wrap up all of my presents and put them under the tree." She shrugged. "He wraps presents at work."

"Okay," Roger said, not sure precisely why Angel was telling him this.

"Anyway, everyone will be here soon and lunch is going to be very casual… and I don't expect you to be there if you're uncomfortable," Angel added. Roger hid his emotions about as well as a polar bear sneaking into a giraffes –only club. "Benny's wife is pregnant," she added. "And Mark wants to go to Brown."

Roger nodded.

Angel inhaled deeply to keep herself from sighing. "In case you're uncomfortable and you're hungry," she said, offering the bag. Roger took it. He wasn't going to speak, she realized. "All right." Angel stood. She reached out and smoothed down Roger's hair. "Merry Christmas Eve, honey."

She turned to go. When she had reached the door, Roger forced himself to ask, "Angel?"

She paused and turned. Roger stood, holding the bag and shaking slightly. "Yes?"

"Would you…" Roger looked at the floor, swallowed and forced himself to look at Angel. "Is there something you want me to call you? Other than Angel?"

Angel smiled. She blinked three times in rapid succession, opened her mouth but couldn't speak. Roger looked at the brown paper bag and said, "I'm sorry…"

"No," Angel said quickly. "Roger, I… I'm…"

Then she had no need to speak, because Roger had dropped the paper bag and, before Angel could react, wrapped his arms around her. He pressed his face into her shoulder, breathing her in. He trembled, and held her so tightly it almost hurt.

Then, quickly as he had come, Roger was gone, kneeling by the window looking out with a brown paper bag clutched to his chest.

Angel shut the door as quietly as she could. She walked softly down the stairs and continued down towards the basement room with her sewing machine. She managed two steps before she sank down, buried her face in her hands and wept.

She came to at a warm touch on her shoulder. When Angel looked up, she saw Roger, his face determinedly set against emotion. He met her eyes for a moment, then pointed to the front door. Then he turned and ran upstairs.

The door opened almost as soon as Roger disappeared. Angel pushed tears off her cheeks, but not fast enough, and not in any way that could hide her state.

"Ang? What's wrong?"

She returned Collins' embrace enough to pull away without being rude. "I need to do something," she said.

Collins nodded. He had heard that before. "Will you be back for Christmas?" he asked.

Angel laughed. "I always say I won't get lost," she said, "don't I?"

He nodded.

"I'll be back for Christmas," she promised, then kissed him and headed downstairs.

--

In the car, Mark opened the tin. It emitted the usual small squeals and pop of release. He pushed through a slew of Polaroid photographs for the one he wanted. It stood out enough that Mark could find it even without his glasses, simply by the color.

When he snapped the photograph a month ago, Roger had blinked at the flash. But he hadn't asked why or wanted to see the picture. And now Mark had the photograph, a strange perspective of a naked boy, his feet too close and his head too far away. Roger looked strange. He was more a fleshy dolphin than a human.

Did dolphins have sex like humans did?

Could dolphins be gay?

Mark tried to see Roger's face. His eyes were closed, and—

"Mark!" Maureen demanded. She prodded her brother's shoulder sharply.

"Ow." Mark put away the picture and rubbed the spot Maureen had hit. "What was that for?"

"Say 'Gumby'," Maureen instructed.

"Oh, piss off," Mark drawled.

From the front seat, Joanne said, "Guys. Two more minutes."

Actually it was seven. Mark knew because he watched the luminous green numbers on the clock as Maureen popped her bubble gum, poked him, and tried desperately to engage Mark in one of her many exasperating games. When Joanne depressed the brake pedal in front of the house, Mark was out of the car before it had fully stopped.

_To be continued!_

...review? Pretty please?


	14. The Use

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

Mark had intended to dash upstairs and leap onto Roger, smacking him with a big, sloppy kiss. Unfortunately, as he ran up the stairs and through the door, Mark came into sharp contact with another member of his family.

"Careful!"

"Sorry," Mark murmured.

Maureen edged up behind him and whispered in his ear, "Ma-ark's in trouble, Ma-ark's in trouble…"

Mark kicked her ankle.

"Ow!" Maureen tugged on the wisps of hair composing Mark's almost-sideburns.

"Youch!" Mark punched her shoulder.

Maureen reached for Mark's hand, intending to pinch the web of skin between his thumb and first finger, but Collins separated them. "Out of curiosity," he said, "where's your mom?"

"Parking the car," Maureen replied promptly. "She said parking in your neighborhood is like trying to shove a ram's horn up an unlubricated arsehole."

"Mhm. Mom's hitting the sauce again?" Collins asked. He shut the door on the rain. "Let me guess: Maureen wants to watch old movies, and Mark's waiting for the rain to let up so he can go for a walk."

Maureen nodded and dashed upstairs. Angel had the best film collection this side of the Mississippi, as far as she was concerned.

"Minus two points, Uncle Tom," Mark said. He shrugged. "I could stay here making cabin jokes while you keep guessing," he said.

"Haven't seen him all day. He's probably skulking in his room."

Mark grinned.

Collins folded his arms. "Not even going to hang around for pleasantries?" he asked, but he was grinning. Mark's grin faltered. "It's okay, go on up. Just know that I am going to _intentionally_ show your baby pictures at dinner."

Mark never could tell when Collins was joking. "And Mark!" Collins called, when Mark was halfway up the stairs. He paused. "You get him to come down—and _stay_ down here—I'll let you open a Christmas present tonight."

"Mom says no," Mark reminded him. Maureen constantly asked to be allowed _one_ present on Christmas Eve, just _one_! And Joanne always said no.

"My house," Collins retorted.

"_My_ house," Angel corrected. She stood in the doorway, carrying a strangely-wrapped package. She stepped into the room and knocked the door shut. "What are you saying about the house?"

"If Mark gets Roger to stay down here, he gets to open a present tonight."

"Two," Angel said. Mark grinned and turned to go. "No hug, Mark?" He pounded down the stairs, wrapped his arms around Angel, then turned and dashed up the stairs. He pounded down the hall and burst into Roger's room without knocking. Roger stood by the window looking out, but when Mark entered he turned sharply, terror written in every line of his face.

Mark didn't notice. "Roger!" He knocked the younger boy onto the bed and kissed him hard. He pulled back, smiling hugely, but the expression faded when Roger didn't smile back. In fact, Roger was desperately searching Mark's face, his breath coming in short spurts.

"Roger?" Mark asked, but Roger had turned away. His eyes were squeezed shut.

Mark climbed off of him. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Roger nodded.

"Roger?" Mark prodded his shoulder. Roger made a tiny noise and curled further in on himself. "Are you okay?" he asked again.

"Fine," Roger squeaked. He pressed his face into his pillow.

"Roger, look at me!"

Roger shuddered and his muscles tensed.

"You're scaring me," Mark said. "Roger!" When Roger still would not look, Mark rose and crept out of the room.

Downstairs, Joanne, Collins and Angel were in the kitchen where it was warm. Joanne had a bag of pita chips in one hand and was munching as she chatted with the happy couple. "…be glad when college applications are in, I can tell you that."

"Has Maureen thought about where she wants to go?" Angel asked.

"The only thing she's said is about coming_ here_," Joanne replied. "She said she could live in your attic watching videos forever." Joanne laughed. "But then, she's never had to put up with you, Thomas."

"Angel?" Mark asked. His voice was lost under the laughter. He cleared his throat. "Um… excuse me?"

Noise faded, and all attention turned to Mark. "I…" _I upset your son. He won't look at me. Actually he seems really upset._ Mark sighed. He didn't want to say that. After all, he'd just get in trouble and Roger wasn't going to tell. His stomach twisted slightly. That was true… but it wasn't right. "I was just coming down for a snack," Mark said. He grabbed something at random and returned to Roger's bedroom.

The first thing Mark did was deposit a handful of pita chips on the desk.

Roger still sat on the bed. He was in the corner, his pillow clutched to his chest. When Mark saw him, he jumped. All that time, watched unknowing. It unsettled him.

"Sorry," Mark said. He sat on the bed beside Roger. "I didn't mean to startle you, but I've really missed you a lot. I thought about you all the time…"

Under Mark's gaze, Roger smiled slightly. "I thought about you, too," he lied.

_to be continued!_

...review? Pretty please?


	15. The End of His Tether

**Disclaimer:** Jonathan Larson created RENT and it's probably now "owned" by a film studio

Roger heard Benny arrive. He heard it while Mark was on top of him, kissing him and running his hands again and again through Roger's hair. Roger didn't mind. It wasn't that he didn't want Mark to kiss him, at least that he wanted Mark not to kiss him. Mark had eaten turkey that day and Roger didn't like turkey, especially not old and staling and accompanied by bad breath.

And Roger couldn't remember _why_ he had kissed Mark in the first place. He tried to recreate that day, tried to ignore Mark's weight and pressure on his body now and think instead of the park.

It had been cold. Roger remembered wind against his arms, but not dryness. He thought of how the ice cream had tasted, sweet and heavy and thick. Maybe it was the cold that made him want to be closer to Mark, or the blue in Mark's eyes and his soft his lips looked. Maybe it was how Mark understood that Roger didn't want to talk. Maybe it was Mark's hand creeping nearer Roger's thigh and how Roger couldn't stand waiting…

That was when Benny arrived, downstairs. The doorbell rang and the little daughter, whose name Roger had forgotten, shriek "Aunt Angel!" The dog barked.

…Or maybe it was the fact that someone here _wanted_ something from him. Mark didn't talk to Roger as hesitantly as Angel did. If he had his way, Roger would spend every second with Angel. She didn't want that. He knew she didn't. He had seen the way she measured each word.

He strained her.

The noise level rose downstairs. Occasionally Benny or Collins would laugh; both seemed to have the same roaring expression of amusement. And when Maureen and the little girl giggled together, their rising pitches carried up the sound. Generally, though, it was just the dull roar of adult talk.

A gentle suck on his lower lip pulled Roger's attention.

Mark wanted Roger. That was good enough. Roger responded as best he could, pushing his lips against Mark's and moving his tongue, which seemed sufficient. Mark kissed more. His hands found Roger's body.

"Roger?" Mark whispered.

"Hm?" Roger asked.

How long would Mark be upstairs? The noise was getting to be too loud. Roger wanted to sneak upstairs and get his box. If he could just look through his things, he knew, he wouldn't have to hear all this. Another happy family.

Roger hated happy families.

Roger loved happy families.

They gave him that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, that yearning need of wanting something more than he wanted anything else. Roger wanted to be able to go downstairs and sit with Angel and Collins like they were his real parents, and laugh at inside jokes, and cuddle up to Angel and fall asleep just like the little girl did. He wanted Maureen to punch him like she punched Mark, and he wanted Mark to tickle him like he did to Maureen, not leave slobber trails on his neck.

Memories of that Thanksgiving flooded back. Roger had seen the family together for only a short time, and only in groups, but what he had seen he knew he wanted. Worse, he knew he couldn't have it.

"Roger… do you want to…" Mark stroked the inside of Roger's thigh. "…take this a step further?"

"Huh? Oh." Roger got it. He pushed Mark down, climbed onto him and unzipped Mark's corduroys. The cloth already strained against Mark's erection.

"Wait." Mark pulled himself away from Roger. His trousers dragged down as he did, revealing blue-and-white striped boxers. "I want this to be both of us."

Roger hesitated. "H-how?" he asked. Moving around, Roger had never taken a health class. He knew how sex worked, a little about lesbians. He had heard what happened in some of the worse homes. The kids who came out of that had night terrors. They wet their beds. They couldn't be touched and some didn't eat.

Mark frowned. "We won't do it if you're not ready," he said.

"I… I just don't…" Roger blushed and looked at his lap. He didn't know _how_. "If you want," he mumbled, "just tell me what to do." Maybe Mark wouldn't hurt him too badly. After all, Mark wasn't fully grown. He'd be… smaller.

_And as long as I serve a purpose,_ Roger reminded himself,_ they'll keep me here._

He _liked_ living with Collins and Angel. They let him alone. He ate whenever he was hungry. Well, whenever he could sneak into the kitchen. He was even allowed to go into Angel's special room and touch her fabrics. And Collins' books. Roger had seen the shelves so many times, and books piled everywhere in the house so that he could pick up and read one, or a bit of it, without anyone noticing.

Roger wanted to stay in his warm, comfortable room in the quiet house on the hill. He would do what he had to.

Mark's forehead wrinkled. "Do you want to?" he asked.

No, he didn't. He didn't want to be one of those poor quivering boys who wept in the darkness. But Mark wasn't around much. Maybe that wouldn't happen to Roger. He remembered in the institutional places, pulling the pillow over his head and stuffing out as much noise as possible.

"Yes," Roger forced himself to say.

Mark touched his cheek. He pushed his fingers through Roger's hair and leaned close. Mark kissed Roger deeply, with his lips and tongue and the motion of his head. Then he stood, pulled up his pants and zipped them.

"I'm going to take care of this," he said, indicating his erection. "I'll be right back."

In the bathroom, Mark masturbated, then washed his hands. He sighed. Roger didn't know about sodomy? What kind of homosexual _was_ he?

Then he thought about the presents under the Christmas tree and smiled. Maybe someone who grinned about Christmas presents wasn't ready for sex, anyway. Masturbation sated him, and he could cuddle the closeness he craved.

"Roger?"

Roger looked up. He blinked at Mark. "Hm?"

"Why don't you come downstairs?" Mark asked. "Celebrate with us."

Roger looked at his hands. Maybe, just maybe, for a little while, he could pretend.

"Okay."

_To be continued!_

Review? Pretty please?


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Rent, The Fountainhead_ or _Zoombinis_

Mark stepped easily into the living room, climbing over a sea of legs before tapping Maureen. "Budge," he demanded. Mimi stood and, without a word, settled herself on Benny's lap. Her hair was braided into handfuls of tiny braids and henna dye stained her hands.

Mark settled into her vacated space. "Poke," he said, poking Maureen's tummy. Maureen slapped his hand.

Throughout all of this, the adults carried on their conversation, laughing and talking over one another and clutching glasses of wine and cider. Collins stopped speaking first, staring at the doorway where Roger stood, awkward and silent, staring at his feet. Angel noticed at a nudge from Collins and Benny by following their gaze. In a moment the entire room was silent.

"Sorry," Roger mumbled. "I'll go," he mumbled.

"Don't," Angel said. "Roger, come sit. Please." She looked at him, imploring. No one spoke. Roger shuffled forward. His throat closed up. He stepped over to the couch, where Angel sat at one end, beside Collins, who was beside Benny and as a result had about half of Mimi on his lap. Roger plunked down on the floor beside Angel.

Angel smiled. She rested a hand on the springy coils of Roger's hair.

"So," Angel said, her voice soothing against the awkward lull. She leaned towards Alison, one hand still on Roger's head, "You were telling us about the wine-tasting." And though she had no interest in the event, she listened attentively.

"…in a screaming tone of voice--"

"'Screaming' is a verb," Mark said distastefully.

"So?" Alison asked, clearly not understanding.

"A noun can only be modified by an adjective," Mark said. "Not verbs working as adverbs. Adjectives."

"Mark," Joanne warned.

Maureen chipped in, "No, he's right."

"_Kids_," Joanne said firmly.

"Can I open a present now?" Mark asked.

"Not on Christmas Eve," Joanne said.

Collins and Angel traded guilty looks. "Actually, Jo... we promised him," Collins admitted. "We made a deal." Joanne gave him what would have been the frowning of a lifetime, had the majority of Collins' lifetime not included Joanne. But she also gave him the look that meant yes. "Go for it, Mark. _One_," Collins emphasized.

Maureen did not like this at all. "If Mark gets a present, I want a present," she announced.

"It's not a present," Mark said, "it's a reward."

Angel glanced at Collins. Did he realized, as she did, that they could not possibly explain this in front of Roger? Unconsciously, she petted his hair.

Mark plopped down again, a present in his lap. Maureen insisted, "Mark gets one!"

"Daddy," Mimi said sweetly, gazing up at Benny, "can I have a present, too, Daddy?"

Benny looked to Alison. "Allie?"

She bit her lip. The answer that sprang to mind was 'yes', but if Mimi and Mark received gifts surely Roger would ask, and she already knew Angel and Collins would say yes, which left only Maureen without a present. Alison looked to Joanne. "Well?" she asked.

Joanne sighed. She held up her hands. "I know when I'm beaten."

"Mimi, why don't you find presents for all you kids?" Alison suggested.

"Okay, Mommy!" Mimi squealed. She leapt off of Benny's lap: his face contorted as she did. Mimi's heel had landed in just the wrong place. Collins laughed and patted Benny on the back.

"Ever consider lesbianism?" Benny asked Alison, and she laughed.

"Here, Reenie," Mimi said, handing Maureen a gift.

"Thanks," Maureen said.

Mimi turned back to the tree, but Angel called her over then whispered something in her ear and pointed to a specific gift. Mimi smiled, nodded, and ran to the tree. She found a gift for herself, then took the one Angel had pointed at and ferried it over to Roger. Then she returned to Benny's lap, and in a show of parental devotion he didn't shove her off after her previous dismount.

The kids tore into their gifts like Zoombini trolls into pizzas. Maureen discovered a lacy pair of underwear and bras, making all the men in the room very uncomfortable and entrancing Mimi enough to tear her away from her new book, the cover of which showed a long-haired girl riding a pony.

Mark "oooh"ed and stroked the spine of _The Fountainhead_.

There were copious expressions of thanks, and Maureen asked to go upstairs and try on her new bras and panties. Mimi clearly intended to follow her.

"Wait," Alison said. She nodded at the boy sitting cross-legged by Angel's feet. "Roger still has to open his present. Roger?" she asked, encouraging.

Once again, the room fell silent. The heaviness of the silence pressed hard upon him. Roger had, until then, been curled over the present, touching it with his fingertips and rocking gently. And now he continued, self-conscious.

"Roger." Angel touched his shoulder. "Honey?"

Roger leapt to his feet, away from Angel. The present fell to the floor.

"Why are you doing this?" Roger asked. His voice was high and his body shook. He turned to Collins and Angel. "Why," he repeated in a sound like his trachea tearing, "are you _doing_ this?"

Angel looked at Collins. He didn't understand, either. "What?" Angel asked as gently as she could. She reached towards Roger, but he stepped back, shaking his head.

"Why are you lying?" Roger demanded, practically shouting. He struggled against tears. "It's not real!" he cried. "It's not real! You… you'll get tired of me, and you'll get rid of me! Stop pretending I'm your family, I'm only here until you don't have any use for me!"

"Roger," Angel insisted, "you _are_ family."

He shook his head. "You stay with family! _I go back!_ You don't return family! You don't try to _have sex_ with family!"

At this all eyes went to Maureen. She staunchly shook her head but, as Roger stood, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs, Collins said, "Maureen--"

"I didn't!" Maureen protested.

Mark sighed. "Maureen's telling the truth," Mark said. "She didn't put the moves on Roger. I did," he admitted.

The front door slammed. The family's attention went again to the hysterical boy, but he was no longer there.

Roger had gone.

_To be continued!_

Review? Pretty please?


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: RENT and its characters belong to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with them in a wholly unholy manner.

"What exactly possessed you to do something so stupid?"

Mark had heard Collins shout—not often, but the time he burned his hand, for example—but he had never been terrified of him. He was now. Mark had heard Collins shout, but he had never known that 'thunder' could be apt and not a poorly romantic metaphor. He pressed deeper against his chair.

Joanne came to his defense. "Thomas," she said, her voice betraying her tension but kept carefully calm, "we're all upset, but--"

"Joanne," Collins said, and then he said something he had not said in years: "Shut up."

She took offense. No. Joanne was not an angry woman by nature, but when pushed, as she was now, Joanne took umbrage. She stood. "Don't speak to me like that. I admit that it sounds as though Mark has done something wrong, but you haven't even heard his side of the story--"

"Then let me--"

"Not until you calm down," Joanne insisted.

Had Angel been present, Collins wouldn't have said it. But she wasn't. Angel had gone out to look for Roger, along with Benny, Alison, and Mimi, who insisted on helping, as well as Evita, who Mimi insisted on bringing. Maureen had gone, too.

Mark was not allowed to join the search. Collins stayed behind in case Roger should come home. Sensing the tension between the two, Joanne stayed, as well, fearing her son's well-being. Collins could pull one hell of a guilt-trip.

"Calm," Collins repeated, incredulous. "My son is--"

"That does not justify inflicting the same traumas on mine!"

"You're not going to lose him!"

That silenced Joanne, partly because she had not considered it. Also, and mostly, because Collins was hurt. She was his sister. Her first impulse was to ease his pain. The fact that he had shouted like an addict wanting his serum had little to no impact: she blinked, and that was all.

"Lose him?" Mark repeated. His voice shook.

Collins slumped back onto the couch. "Did you fuck him?" he muttered.

"Thomas," Joanne said.

"Did you," Collins reiterated, enunciating each word, "fuck my fourteen-year-old son?"

"_Thomas_."

"No," Mark whimpered.

"Because, of all the shit he's been through, Roger's never been sexually abused," Collins said. Mark whined and pressed his hands over his eyes. "And if you've done that, we really have lost him. We finally saw some progress—"

"Do you really think--"

"No!" Mark repeated, loudly. The adults looked at him. There were tears on his cheeks. Mark had never heard this house so quiet. It was empty. It had lost its heartbeat. "I… I wanted to," he admitted quietly.

Joanne groaned, "Oh, Mark…"

Mark blushed as shame crept over him. He hadn't meant to do this. He had not meant to hurt his family. He hadn't meant to hurt Roger. "We were kissing," he said. "I said I wanted to do more. Roger agreed but… but I didn't think he really wanted to so we came down here!" The words spilled out. Mark shook his head. "I didn't mean to hurt Roger," he insisted.

Collins sighed. His shoulders were slumped. Suddenly he wished he could be out in the rain with the others, instead of sitting here listening to unhelpful semi-hysterics and feeling futile. "Well," he said. "Well. Mark. You need to decide, then. I want you to break up with him."

"Thomas--"

"I am not telling you," he insisted, glancing at Joanne, "to break up with him. I am merely observing that as long as your persist in any romantic engagements with Roger, you deprive him of a family and you deprive Angel and me of a son."

"Laying it on a bit thick, are we?" Joanne demanded.

Collins shrugged. But he had to leave the room when Mark began sobbing. Joanne sat down and put her arms around him. "It's all right," she soothed.

Collins needed something to do. He went upstairs and straightened Roger's room. It was already neat, but that didn't stop him smoothing the covers on the bed and sweeping the handful of pita chips off the desk. He sighed. Nothing about this room was personal. Anyone could live in it. Hell, it could be a guest bedroom.

But it _wasn't_. Roger seemed to think so, though.

Collins returned downstairs. He wasn't too fond of cooking or particularly good at it, but everything was set up. Even he could manage basic tasks.

"Thomas." Joanne stood in the doorway.

"Where's Mark?" Collins asked.

"He went upstairs. Did you think that was absolutely necessary?"

Collins folded his arms. "Jo, Angel wanted a child so badly. You didn't _see_… and the fact that she can't have one herself…" Collins shook his head. Either Joanne understood or she didn't. "If we lose Roger, it would kill her." Not literally, of course, but it would certainly hurt her heart.

Joanne shook her head. "How about him?" she asked.

"What?" Collins' voice was sharp. His family was more liberal than Angel's; nevertheless—

"Roger," Joanne said. "He's outside. He's not even wearing shoes or a jacket, and he's probably scared."

"No," Collins said softly. "Roger isn't scared. Roger's just… he's just… maybe he's sorry. Maybe he misses it here. Angel says he likes it."

"When you have a child, you make a promise." Joanne's voice was gentle now. He was broken enough to listen, and he would only hate her if she pushed him: Joanne knew that. "You promise to take care of something, of someone who can't take care of himself. You made that promise to Roger, and you made it to his parents. His birth parents. I know this is hard, but you don't get to make mistakes like everyone else." Joanne licked her lips nervously, glanced around and said, "When Mark was an infant I dropped him on his head. Twice. When Maureen was three she got away from me after her bath and ran onto the lawn butt naked. I pulled her in off the street and all I could think was, what if she had been hit? Or kidnapped? You don't get that with Roger, and I'm sorry you don't. I'm sorry Angel can't have a baby. But you need to be ready, right now, to deal with a teenage son, because you have a teenage son right now who needs parents."

"Maybe I should've protected him by keeping him away from teenage pervs."

"Don't make me hit you."

Collins laughed. "Remember the time you beat up Derek Johnson?" he asked.

Joanne chuckled. She knew he had listened: he told her, in his own way. "He had it coming," she muttered, half-ashamed and half-modest. "He shouldn't've been picking on you." They were quiet. Then she stepped forward and hugged him. "They'll bring him home."

"Yeah," Collins said.

"He'll be okay."

_He wasn't 'okay' to begin with._

_To be continued!_

Where's Roger? Will they find him?

Want to know? That's why you should review. (Pretty, pretty please?)


	18. The Deal

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

"Tell me about him," Benny requested. Alison had taken the girls in the car; he stood on the sidewalk with Angel, raising his voice to be heard over the rain.

Angel didn't pause a moment. "He likes cloth," she said. "I was teaching him how to sew. He doesn't like crowds, but he seems fairly happy with objects, things he can touch."

"Anything else?" Benny asked.

This time Angel needed to think. What else _was_ there? "He doesn't need much sleep," she added lamely.

Benny nodded. "Okay. Split up?"

Angel agreed. She headed down to the fabrics shop. She hadn't had a chance to bring Roger here yet, but she wanted to. _Pick something_, she would say, and she imagined the look on Roger's face as he touched each fabric.

In the store, Angel had similar thoughts to those she imagined in Roger's head. At each turn she saw a new fabric, something base to craft into something incredible. It was the epitome of her pride and the majority of her showing off.

And honestly she took a guilty glee from having someone else to sew for. Not that she didn't love Roger: she did, or wanted to… she would. But as she walked through the store, Angel considered the sorts of clothes she wanted Roger to wear. He liked hiding—she would make him sweaters with hoods, things he could hide under.

And a cape. She would make him a big black cape, hooded and woolen, and he could put it on and be invisible.

Of course, all of this hinged on finding him. Though she found many marvelous fabrics as though she had not seen them before, and imagined Roger's awed expression passing the barrels of yarn, she found him nowhere.

Each corner she turned, each object she touched, Angel imagined Roger. She saw his face light up as he discovered boucle yarns and his childish, poorly concealed attraction to cowboy-print fabrics. But for all this imagining, she could not imagine him into being.

She had been so sure she would find him here. She wouldn't.

--

Benny thought for a long time before he moved.

If Roger wanted to think about the home, he would have wanted to think about how it was _before_ and Angel would find him. Places felt like Angel, not like Collins. Collins was his own place, his own damn planet, where logic worked backwards and everything was so damned _safe_.

So, Benny figured, Roger probably wanted a place that _wasn't_ like the home before.

His best bet was no crowds. If Roger wanted to be alone, he wouldn't be near a movie theater—Joanne's ex-husband, who was Jewish, always recounted tales of packed theaters on Christmas Eve.

Evita. Evita was another clue. Roger liked her, but he probably hadn't walked her through the hills since Mark hadn't looked too tired after the walk, and Mark had no leg strength.

Benny grinned. Joanne had told him that when Mark got his license, he drove to the market to pick up eggs, even though the market was just a block away.

Benny knew Evita, too. She'd get off the leash if she could and _run_. Which meant…

Benny clutched his umbrella and headed towards the park. He checked the playground, first—plenty of places there to at least get mild shelter from the rain. He didn't find Roger hiding under the climbing structure or sitting on a swing, soaked, not caring.

The public pool was locked, or Benny would have checked the locker rooms. They were warm, at least, dry and indoors. Roger could've grabbed a warm shower there, maybe stolen some clothes. The deal didn't seem too bad, to Benny. _I mean,_ he thought, _if I was on the streets._

Benny walked past the tennis courts and checked the tiny ledges by the snack shack. He shook his head. Roger wasn't there.

"If I was a fourteen-year-old…" Benny tried, but he only knew that he would want to be as warm and dry and safe as possible. He thought back to… what? Freshman year. He didn't actually remember much about his own freshman year, except kissing ass so his teachers turned a blind eye when he and his friends ditched to smoke pot. And Benny seriously doubted that the boy who had never stayed in a foster home for more than a year, who had been told too many times how he lucky he was, and who still managed A's and B's, ditched.

Collins hadn't ditched, at first. It was something Benny never understood, how three kids from the same family could go through life, two of them with first names and one of them as Collins to the point that at a shout of "Hey, Collins!" only the last would turn his head. And he had been a scared freshman, once.

That was what was missing!

Benny went to a feeder school: most of his junior high attended the same senior high. Collins went to some weird school for smart kids. He only knew the kids who had teased him in elementary school. Collins was _scared_ when he started high school. Benny wasn't.

So what had Collins done? He earned a spot on the school paper, skipping the usual two years' journalism classes, and those first weeks before a paper came out he sat under the desks, scribbling his articles in a battered composition book.

After the articles came out, after Collins went over the paper and marked it up and put out something grammatically sound, he enjoyed attention and praise for his skill. But before that he was a frightened little boy, cowering under a desk.

_Under._

Okay, Benny could work with that. He needed to find a small space. When he looked, mostly, beneath things, he looked as though Roger took shelter from the rain. Roger was taking shelter from more than rain, though, and now Benny knew and he would take that into account.

In the end, Roger gave himself away.

The whimper was so quiet Benny might have imagined it; in fact, he at first wondered if he did. But it had been a noise, certainly. He stood on the bridge wondering if it was worth investigating, if it wasn't some unhappy stray puppy, and the noise came again.

Benny strode down the path, then picked his way into the growth beside it until he could crouch, awkwardly manipulating his umbrella, to peer under the bridge. It was nothing fancy, only planks nailed firmly together, but it was watertight and the thinness of the brook brought the walls near. It was practically a room, or the closest a teenage runaway would find.

Without breaking into the locker room, Benny reminded himself.

Roger recoiled. "I'm not going back!" he cried.

"Yes, you are," Benny told him.

Roger shook his head. He was muddy and shivering.

"Everyone's worried about you."

"They'll send me back. I won't go back, I won't." That was when Benny noticed the tears on his cheeks.

"You have to go back," he reasoned, as gently as he could. This was outside his experience. Mimi could always be cajoled out of a sulk by funny faces or a cuddle or being reminded that she had another pony book to read. (Benny shivered. He would be full glad when she outgrew the pony phase.) That wouldn't work with Roger. "Collins and Angel are worried about you. And where will you sleep, hm?"

"They'll send me back now," Roger insisted like he was talking to a small child. "They'll make me go back to the home and I won't go."

"Roger… what exactly do you think is going to happen to you?"

"I don't know. I'll run. I can pick up scraps behind the kosher deli and I'll just… I don't know. I'll figure it out."

"I don't mean… I mean if you go back to Collins." And Angel, he reminded himself.

"They'll send me to a home," Roger said, as though this was completely obvious. "I'm not going to another one of those. Theirs is the only foster home I've ever been in where I stayed three months without getting hit and without getting punished, and now they're gonna get rid of me."

Benny bit back a frown. His knees were beginning to hurt from crouching, but he wasn't about to sink his butt into a puddle of mud. "Collins and Angel are _not_ going to get rid of you," he decreed.

"Weren't you paying attention?" Roger asked, beginning to lose his temper. "I… I shouted, I threw things, I was _rude_. They'll send me back. Then they'll put me in another home, or there won't be another home." Roger curled around himself, hugging his knees and staring at the river. "Then you go to juvie," he said.

"Roger, you're not going to juvie."

"There's nowhere else," Roger said quietly.

"There's home."

"No! The homes… the homes are…"

"No," Benny said, "not homes. Home. As in, the place where Collins and Angel live, where your bed is, where your clothes are, and where Mimi and Maureen will be unendurable until they get to open Christmas presents tomorrow and Angel will be inconsolable until her baby returns."

"Her—oh," Roger said, getting it. He shook his head. "But… they'll get their presents… she'll hate me. And if I go back, he… he'll…" Roger looked at Benny as though he had completed his sentence. "And he's pretty strong."

Benny frowned for a moment, not understanding, then his mouth popped open in shock. "Collins would _never_," Benny said angrily. "That's not him, Roger."

"Adults are all the same," Roger announced.

"So are teenagers," Benny returned. "Stubborn as hell. Sitting under a bridge, in the mud, in the rain, in your socks and a T-shirt when you could be in a warm bed with a mug of cocoa and Angel fussing over you." He chuckled. "And Angel fusses _well_." Roger smiled shyly. "Do you think she would ever hurt you?" Benny asked.

Roger shook his head. "No!"

"So why are you so keen to think it about Collins?" Benny inquired.

Roger shrugged. "Women… some of them do and some of them don't. You can just tell."

"So _women_ are different, but all _men_ are the same."

"W… well…"

"Do you think _I_ would hit you?"

That one was easy. "Yes."

Benny chuckled. "So I would hit you, Collins would hit you… how about Joanne? She's a lesbian."

"I don't know," Roger admitted. He didn't need this—but he didn't exactly have anything better to look forward to. For all he knew, this was the last pleasant conversation he would ever have.

"What about a transvestite? A man who is technically a man, but considers himself a woman, would someone like that hit you?" Benny asked.

"Are you enjoying this?" Roger demanded.

Benny admitted, "A bit, yeah. But hey, what do you say we continue this conversation at home? If nothing else, get your sneakers. Look, Roger. I give you my word that if you've had a conversation with Collins and you still want to leave, I won't let anyone stop you. If he hits you I'll buy you a ticket to Santa Monica."

Roger frowned. "Santa Monica?" he asked.

"Sure. Full of bums there, it's warm all year. Roger. I promise."

Benny held out his hand, and something about his serious gaze and his steady tone made Roger trust him.

_To be continued!_

Yes, that is true about Santa Monica. No, I do not live in Santa Monica. (I wish. Right on the beach. Daaaaamn that's expensive property.)

Anyway. Review? Pretty pretty please?


	19. The Arrivals

**Disclaimer:** Jonathan Larson created RENT and it's probably now "owned" by a film studio. _The Fountainhead_ is Ayn Rand's.

The house was quiet. Again. It was quiet in that way everyone felt was wrong, quiet like the house should never be, even when everyone is asleep. At least when they sleep there are sounds of snoring and breathing and whimpering when someone has a nightmare.

But now the house was quiet—ticking clock, screaming footstep quiet. In the kitchen, Joanne and Collins he stopped speaking. There was nothing to say. Mark sat on the stairs, halfway to the bend, intently watching the door. In his hands he held _The Fountainhead_, but more to calm himself than anything else. He couldn't focus enough to read.

He kept waiting for some grave punishment to fall.

"Roger!"

The cry came from Mark. He sprang up from his spot on the stairs and took a few steps across the floor. Collins and Joanne emerged from the kitchen, but all three stopped when Benny shook his head grimly. Roger froze. He stood, his hair slicked down with rain and his face streaked with mud, shivering, socks soaked wet. Mud spattered his lower legs.

"Roger?" Collins asked. "Benny, where—"

Benny gave Roger a gentle push. "Maybe Roger should go take a hot shower," he said, so as not to be completely rude to Collins. Roger got the hint. Mark's hand rose as Roger shuffle-sludged past, but he didn't touch, like a patron in a museum.

It was a great tribute to the solemnity of the occasion that no one laughed at the heavy coat of mud on the rear of Roger's jeans.

Once they heard the shower go on upstairs, the adults began to talk. "Where was he?" Joanne asked, as Collins said, "Benny, thank you."

"No problem," Benny said. "He was in the park, under the bridge. Thomas—" Everyone else called him 'Collins'… Benny and Joanne had never been able to adjust to that "—he's terrified of you."

"I know," Collins said.

"Tom, he thinks you're going to beat him," Benny forced himself to say. "Especially for that outburst," he added.

For a long moment, Collins was quiet. The others watched him, trying to guess what was going on in his head. Finally, Collins nodded. "Yeah," he said quietly. "That makes sense."

The lawyer in Joanne sparked. "What?" she demanded. A moment later, under Benny's glare, she recognized the incompatibility of "Thomas B. Collins" and "child abuse", but she had already asked the question.

"Well… everyone home he's ever been in," Collins said, "from what they told us at the orphanage." He covered his face with his hands. "That's an awful word," he muttered. "Fuck. Anyway. It hasn't been easy for him."

Mark bit his lip. Everything had been tough for Roger. Why had he gone and pushed Roger? And why couldn't Roger have just said it, just said _no_?

"Well he's here now," Joanne said, as comfortingly as she could.

"Yeah," Collins said, and maybe Mark only imagined the edge in his tone but that was it. Mark turned and dashed upstairs.

They had all agreed to half-hour check-ins. The girls were early for theirs, and all too glad to head into the kitchen and snatch cookies and tea, earning more than a few snide remarks from Benny, who tended to accent his sentences by smacking Alison's butt. By then Joanne had disappeared upstairs to speak with Mark.

Collins went outside. He needed the quiet, or at least the distraction. The girls were all laughing, Benny with them. But Collins… Collins couldn't handle that, at the moment. He couldn't handle the jovial atmosphere. Upstairs, Joanne was comforting Mark, and Collins knew how much a word from him would mean. Mark needed to know that they were okay.

Collins wasn't sure they were. He wasn't okay with _himself_ at that point.

All right, he had known what Roger thought about him. That much was true. He had known. He just wasn't comfortable having it said. He didn't want to consider himself in that role; he didn't want anyone else to consider it. Child abuse? He would never! In three months he had barely touched Roger.

Yet Roger still thought—

No. It was all Roger had known. All he needed was to know Collins and he'd understand—

Three months and they hadn't got to know each? Pathetic!

Collins sighed. Obviously, over the past few months, he hadn't done right. He needed to be more aggressive, he decided, leave fewer decisions to Roger. He would make Roger come out of his room. Even if Roger barely spoke to Collins and Angel, just being around them would help him understand them. He would—

"Angel!" Collins hopped off the porch and dashed up the sidewalk to meet her.

"Collins." They clung to one another. "Any news?" she asked.

Collins nodded. "He's home, baby. Benny brought him—"

"Thank God."

Collins chuckled. "Don't let Benny hear you say that."

Angel pulled him towards the house. "Come on," she said. "Let's go."

Collins held her wrist. "Ang?" She heard the hurt in his voice and stepped back. "He… he's afraid I'll beat him, Angel."

Angel put her arms around his neck. Her umbrella clattered to the ground. "He doesn't know any better, love. He just doesn't know."

After a moment, Collins pulled himself together. "Let's go inside," he said, "before we get soaked."

When they returned, Joanne was just coming down the stairs. "Hey," she said. "Roger just went into his room. Who's going to talk to him?"

Angel and Collins traded glances. "I guess I should," Collins said. "Oh. Ang?"

"Hm?"

Collins handed her a crumpled bill. "You win again," he said.

_To be continued!_

Review? Pretty please?


	20. The Talk

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with the characters.

Roger was lying on his side, curled in fetal position. He had his face to the wall, but he wasn't sleeping. He was thinking about what he had just heard, about what he had done, and about what was going to happen.

Benny said he wasn't going to be sent away. Benny said he would help. And Benny had seemed so nice, Roger _wanted_ to trust him.

But Benny was a man. All men were either dickheads or counselors, and counselors weren't totally human, and some of them were dickheads, anyway.

Roger heard footsteps on the stairs and curled tighter in on himself. His hair was still wet and his skin felt too dry, but now he had a new source of discomfort. Roger had liked this home. He had liked Angel, and her fabrics, and the way she touched his shoulder and the way she helped him try to sew. And he had thought maybe, maybe, he could keep his nose clean in this one and they'd let him stay.

So much for _that._ _Idiot,_ Roger snapped at himself. _You're a stupid idiot, you know that? You threw it away. Again. Asshole. Why the hell do you hate me so much?_ Sometimes, when he was truly angry, Roger slipped into two people.

Collins knocked on the door. "Roger?" he called softly. "Are you awake?"

Roger squirmed. _Might as well get it over with._ "Yes," he answered. He curled more tightly. _Please go, please don't, please don't, please don't._ Some things grew strong in patterns and repetition. Begs weren't one of them.

"Okay." Collins walked into the room. He sat on the edge of Roger's bed. "Can we talk?"

"Okay," Roger said. He stared at the wall. Wall. It was a nice wall. There weren't any cracks, any holes, any rude words etched in. The paint was a bit old and peeling off in some places, but that was about it. Well, Roger wasn't really crazy about the color, either, but that was the _color_.

The walls were solid.

"I'm sorry for what happened with Mark," Collins said. He was already frustrated, hating how carefully he had to choose each word, but he knew that any slip now could not be taken back. Usually he only needed an adequate word, and could combine connotation and denotation of terms, but now the word itself desired perfection. He had to do this right, for Angel's sake. Hell, for Roger's. "But based on what Mark told me, I'm a little concerned, because Mark told me—and I'm not saying this is true—he said…" Collins paused. He sighed. _Shit._ "He said you didn't want to, but you told him yes, anyway."

_Oh, God, no._ Roger felt as though his heart had stopped and his throat had close up. _No, no, no, please. Please not that._ Tears gathered behind his eyes, and he was afraid he wouldn't be able to keep himself from crying.

"Roger, is that true?"

_Yes. No._ It was true, but it was _Mark_, he was so scrawny it wouldn't've hurt and Roger would have been useful and Mark was only around a few times a year and they would've kept him… but… but…

"Roger. Your body belongs to _you_. Don't let anybody touch you in a way that makes you uncomfortable."

"Okay," Roger whimpered.

Collins sighed. _Well, he'll get it one day._ "Roger?"

"Yes?"

"Angel and I… Angel and I didn't… Roger, I need you to talk to me right now. Everything I know about you, I've heard from Benny or Mark or Angel. I need to hear it from you right now."

Roger looked at the wall. Slowly, very slowly, he sat up. He pushed bangs out of his eyes. "Okay," he whispered. And he blinked.

_Christ._ Those _eyes_. Something about them struck Collins. "Okay," he repeated. He had never thought he would be proud of such a tiny motion, and now he didn't know if he was proud of himself or of Roger. "You'll be honest with me?" he asked.

Roger nodded his head.

Collins took a deep breath and asked the question to which he already knew the answer, but did not want that answer confirmed: "Are you afraid of me?"

Roger's pause was enough. He managed to emit a small whimper.

"Roger, look at me. Roger," Collins said, in the sharpest tone he had thus far taken with the boy, and that only stern, "look at me."

Trembling and continuing with those tiny noises, Roger obeyed.

"Why?" Collins asked. Another question whose answer who knew, and another answer he didn't want to hear.

Roger whispered something fully inaudible.

"Pardon?"

"Please," Roger whispered. He shook his head, then bent, protecting himself as best he could. "Please," he repeated, "please…"

"Roger, look at me."

For some reason, the phrase worked. Roger obeyed. He lifted his face and, though he kept shaking, he stared steadily at Collins. It was quite unnerving, actually.

"Tell me what you're afraid of."

"You'll beat me," Roger forced himself to say. The words hurt like vomit. "When you're drunk, when you're angry, when something goes wrong, when I look at you the wrong way, you'll hit me and it won't matter who tells you to stop it because you'll do it until you're satisfied or too tired to keep going. Or... or... or something worse. The worse thing. And then I'll have to move again," he concluded, as though a thousand beatings could not be so bad as this.

"I'll never—"

"They always say that," Roger choked. "They always say they never will. Or never again."

"And I couldn't possibly be different?"

Roger clapped his hands over his ears. Sure, Collins _could_ be different. Or Benny could, or Mark. But Roger didn't know what to do about that. Men were all the same. Men hit. That rule had gotten him through the last eight years of his life, and he wasn't going to give it up now.

"Roger?"

No. No, no, no, he couldn't do this. Who the hell did this guy think he was, anyway? He wasn't ANYONE! Fuck him. He wasn't Roger's father, no, no more than any of the others were Roger's father. Father. What's father? Just whatever man Roger happened to live with in that moment. It didn't mean anything. It didn't mean any power!

"Roger?"

"Mm?"

"Would _you_ ever do a think like that?"

Roger shook his head.

"Well. You're nearly a man."

"I'm a boy."

"Roger."

Roger shook his head.

"Roger."

Because it didn't matter. Because if he _dared_, if he even _tried_ anything, Roger could fight him back. Hell, he'd been in the homes. He knew the soft spots. Roger was a scrapper among boys, why not men?

"I will never hurt you."

Roger shook his head. "You say that now—" but he interrupted himself and raised his eyes, too surprised to think. "Why are you laughing?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," Collins said, meaning it. "You're a very mature person, Roger, in many ways. You have patience and endurance, and buried under all that fear I have no doubt there's a keen intellect. But you sounded exactly like a teenager."

"Why?" Roger asked.

"All adults are the same, hm?"

Even Roger had to chuckle. It _was_ amusing. He pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them. "Collins?"

"Yeah."

"Did I hurt Angel?"

Collins considered that. On the one hand, yes, Angel had such high hopes for Roger. But if Angel had a similar opinion to him, Roger's outburst was a long time coming. He was better than a good boy, and he had issues he was beginning to deal with. Maybe the outburst was even a good thing.

"She seems so fragile, doesn't she?" Collins asked. Roger nodded. "She's taken a lot more than you think. She's tough. I don't think she'll hold it against you, Roger, but I don't think an apology would hurt, either."

Roger shook his head. "Does she hate me?" he asked.

"Absolutely not."

"Do you hate me?"

Collins froze. The question caught him off his guard: he had been hated, and been accused of hating, but never before had he been asked in such a frank manner.

"Please," Roger said. "I need to know."

Collins shook his head. "I don't hate you."

Roger covered his mouth and yawned. When he had finished, he said, "Benny's nice."

Collins chuckled. "Benny's a lot of things," he said. "Most people wouldn't say 'nice' is one of them. I'm glad you can see his better side."

"He promised me…"

"What?"

Roger shook his head.

"Doesn't feel right to tell?" Collins asked. Roger nodded, relieved that he was understood. "All right. I trust Benny," he explained in response to Roger's surprised expression. "I don't think he would do anything to hurt you. That is an experience I'm sorry you can never have."

"Being hurt by Benny?" Roger asked, sleepy and truly mystified.

Collins laughed again, but not unkindly. "He can be horribly vindictive, but no. Trusting someone innately, like when two people grow up together."

"Except before Benny was born," Roger pointed out.

"You mean before _I_ was born."

"_You're_ the baby?" Roger asked, shocked. He had known it wasn't Joanne: her eldest boy was almost twenty, and besides she had age lines on her face. Benny and Collins seemed younger and closer in age, but somehow Roger hadn't imagined Collins as being youngest.

He suppressed another yawn.

Collins asked, "You can't tell? I'm so sheltered and immature."

Roger gave an appreciative smile, which was broken by a yawn. Collins frowned. "You need to sleep," he said. "I'm sorry to've kept you up. Sleep," he said firmly, before Roger could objected, then he rose and went to the door.

"Wait!" Roger cried before he could stop himself. "Could you… um… could you please not turn off the light?"

Collins nodded. "Don't like the dark?" he asked. Roger shook his head, staring at his hands. "We can get you a nightlight if you want," he said, then realized how stupid the suggestion was. A fourteen-year-old boy, especially one so insecure as Roger, would not admit to needing a nightlight.

They would just have to get him one, anyway.

_to be continued!_

Review? Pretty please?


	21. The Pictures

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

Roger wandered down the back stairs, sleep still blurring his eyes slightly. He clutched a battered wooden box tightly against his chest with one hand and with the other he touched the wall to keep himself steady. His body felt heavy, too tired.

When he reached the kitchen, Roger paused. Sensations overwhelmed him. From the next room he heard voices, laughter. What time was it? The adults sounded maybe a little drunk. Roger stepped back—but no. No, this wasn't like that, he reminded himself.

He stepped into the kitchen, and another sensation hit him: the scent of food. Something was cooking, or had been cooking. Roger saw leftovers on the counter: lasagna, and salad—which Roger didn't much care for—those triangle things he liked but couldn't name and something that looked like rice and ground beef.

Roger didn't particularly care what it was. His stomach growled. He grabbed a triangle thing and bit into it. Mmm, the spices traveled through his body. It was cooling, but the spices burned warmth through him. Roger finished the triangle thing and stuck his fingers into the rice stuff.

After about ten solid minutes' eating, jamming down rice and beef and lasagna and triangles, Roger pulled the milk carton out, drank, and was finished. He clutched his box tighter and stepped into the next room.

The adults were sitting around the table. Mark and Maureen were with them. Everyone was smiling, most drinking some form of alcohol or caffeine.

This time, Roger didn't wait to be noticed. He stepped up beside Angel and touched her shoulder gently. Angel turned. "What—Roger. What do you need?" she asked quietly.

"Can I talk to you?" His voice came out as strong as a whisper. "Privately?"

"Of course." Angel stood. She cast a gentle smile to excuse herself and led Roger out of the room. "In here?" she asked.

Roger sat on the couch. The lights blinked on the Christmas tree, and through the big front window Roger saw the street and the rain. Angel sat beside him. "What is it?" she asked.

Roger opened his box. He rifled through its contents and extracted a photograph, which he handed to Angel. The photograph showed a small boy, grinning, wearing the traditional thick white jacket and white trousers of gi.

"Is this you?" Angel asked. She didn't need to ask: she knew. If Roger let his guard down and laughed, his face would be almost identical to this little boy's.

Roger nodded. "After my mom died," he confided, "I went into my room and put on my gi, and I felt like… like nothing could hurt me," Roger said. "Like it would be okay. I guess I kind of knew it wouldn't… she wouldn't come back…but I was learning a lot in my classes and I thought I would be strong enough…"

"How old were you?" she asked quietly, knowing the answer would hurt. He was the age of the boy in the picture. He was tiny.

"Almost six."

Five.

"Oh, honey…"

Roger plowed forward: "I didn't bother after Dad. Why pretend? It wasn't going to be okay. My neighbor came over and she started taking all the pictures out of the photo albums. I was so mad, I started kicking her…" Roger clutched the box to his chest.

"But she put all the pictures in that box for you, didn't she?" Angel asked.

Roger nodded. He opened the box and pushed through again. "That's my real—my birth mother," Roger amended quickly. He handed Angel a picture of a young woman, with the same curly blond-brown hair as him. She was smiling, in the picture, and holding a cloth-wrapped bundle that could only be her baby.

"She's beautiful."

"Yeah, she was," Roger mumbled. "Excuse me." He covered his face.

Angel rested a hand on Roger's shoulder. "It's okay to cry," she said.

"You're a girl, what do you know?" Roger raised his head slowly. He stared at Angel, shocked. Had that been him? He'd said that? To _Angel!?_ He couldn't've! He loved Angel! But the expression on her face left no question. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean…"

"Do you want me to get Collins?"

"No!" Roger grabbed her hand. "No, no, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

Angel frowned, and her forehead creased. Collins had told her earlier about his talk with Roger. He had said they were beginning to understand each other, but they weren't, really, were they? "You're still afraid of him, aren't you?" Angel asked.

She didn't need an answer.

Roger slipped off the couch. He crouched on the floor hugging his knees and said, "I'm trying, Angel. I promise I'm trying. But I don't know what to be in a family like this. I don't know why the other families fostered, except that older kids could help out, that maybe the ladies _thought_ they wanted kids, that maybe their men didn't beat so hard on them with me around. Here it's like you _want_ me and I'm not… I don't know what to _do_." He stopped, aware that he was beginning to whine.

"We do want you, Roger," Angel said. "Roger, I can't have children. Physically, I can't bear children. He can do his part, I can't do mine. We, Collins and I, wanted to have children. Since we can't, we decided to adopt. That's why we're fostering you."

She left out the details. She left out the reason she couldn't bear children. She left out the research they had done and the discussions they had had and how badly she wanted to be Roger's real mother—his, not somebody else's.

"I'm sorry," Roger whispered. "I don't know how…"

Angel slid off the couch. She sat beside Roger and put her arms around him. She didn't say anything. She knew she didn't need to. As they sat, bathing in the blinking lights on the Christmas tree, Roger began to speak.

"My first foster mother, when I was six: she was giving me a bath and she started holding me under. Just holding me down. I don't remember much." Angel's grip tightened. To Roger's surprise, he liked this. "The sisters don't care about you as long as you don't piss your bed or spill or anything."

"The sisters?"

"Sometimes they put me in Catholic places," Roger explained. "The nuns. They're… I don't like them. I mean, they're okay." It had to be a pretty big sin, Roger figured, to bash a nun. It was like kicking a puppy or stepping on a flower that wasn't a rose. Roses fight for their own. "But they don't really care, and there's always bullies they can't control. Those government places, too. They're underfunded. They can't really care about each kid."

Angel stroked his hair with one hand. She couldn't think what else to do: on the bright side, she had no need to speak. She doubted she would've known the right words.

Roger shrugged. "I guess everywhere I went, it was just waiting to leave." He couldn't believe this was happening. The words he had longed to say spilling from his lips; all those thought that kept coming back but no one could possibly care about, and didn't everyone have, poured out.

"You know when something bad is going to happen, and it keeps not happening?" he asked. "You get sick of waiting. I didn't care that he was kicking the crap out of me, I just wanted to go to the next place. There wasn't any _last_ place."

"There could be," Angel said.

Roger glanced up at her. His eyes were still crying. "But," he said, "I shouted at you. I ran away."

Angel smiled. She wouldn't allow herself to laugh at the absurdity. "Roger, you're a teenager. You're not fooling around, using drugs, or selling contraband materials to the children at school. As far as I'm concerned, that makes me lucky."

"A... Angel—Oh, God!"

He leapt up and scrambled out of the room.

"Roger." Angel rose. "Roger!" she called, following, but he was already in the kitchen. It was an improvement from him dashing up the stairs. The deprovement involved Benny rubbing Roger's back as he vomited into the sink.

"Hey." Collins tapped Benny on the shoulder. "Budge." The fact that they were quibbling over who would try to comfort a puking child, a generally unsavory task, went unremarked upon. Roger didn't care. For the first time, he ceded to be in a room with Collins without feeling fear. "You'll be okay," Collins told Roger. "You'll be fine."

"That's not helping," Benny said.

"Who asked you?" Collins demanded. Roger whimpered, this time not from the vomit but because Collins' hold on him was not longer comforting or, for that matter, comfortable.

"He's not _fine_."

"Well he's certainly not dying!"

"Boys!" Angel snapped. The two turned to look at her, and Roger tore out of Collins' grasp and in true form dashed up the stairs, almost crying. "That's great, Thomas."

"Angel…"

Angel sighed. She glanced at the pictures in her hand. "Do we have any picture frames?" she asked.

"What?"

"Picture frames." She held out the pictures. "For Roger."

Collins took the photographs. He looked at them for a moment, then shook his head. "Somewhere. I can look… someone should stay with Roger, though."

"I could," piped a voice from the doorway. All three adults turned to look at Mark, whose eyes were bright with hope, then at each other, ping-ponging the responsibility of who would tell him. Mark caught on before one of them took initiative. "Oh." He stepped back and slumped down at the table.

"I'll stay with him," Collins said. He handed the photos back to Angel. "I think there are some frames in the battery box. Oh, and Benny, I'm sorry for snapping at you."

Benny shrugged. "You're my baby brother," he said. "I already _know_ you're a jackass."

Collins punched him on the shoulder, grabbed a bowl and headed upstairs. Angel smiled at Benny before heading downstairs to look for picture frames. Benny sighed and headed into the next room. Everyone looked at him, silent, and he realized they had been listening to the entire familial mis-matchery.

Benny cleared his throat. "Ah. Um." He looked at Mimi, who stared, wide-eyed. He stroked her head. "Who wants to play Taboo?" Benny asked, smiling his brightest smile.

_to be continued!_

...reviews? Pretty please?


	22. The Word

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

Roger lay on his side, holding himself up with one arm. He shook, coughed, and threw up again. He shivered. Tears mingled with sweat on his face.

"It's okay." Collins rubbed Roger's shoulder. "You'll be okay."

Roger's immediate desire was to snap, _I will not, I just puked up my stomach lining you moron, how do you think empty palliative phrases are appropriate?_ He didn't dare. He wanted to, but he knew too well how quickly soothes became slaps. As long as no one was yelling about the mess he was making into the bowl, Roger would maintain the status quo.

"How much did you eat?" Collins asked.

"Until I wasn't hungry," Roger said. Collins chuckled. _Good answer._ "What…" He paused, wiped his mouth on the towel he'd grabbed and asked, "What are the rules?" He was huddled over a bowl of vomitus, shivering, cold, sweating, but though his body was in full revolt, Roger's mind was clear.

"Rules?" Collins repeated, not understanding. Then, at a burst of laughter from downstairs, he asked, "You mean for the game they're playing?"

Roger shook his head—_oops_. That wasn't a smart move. When he was sure he wouldn't be sick, he explained, "The rules for the house." When Collins said nothing, Roger continued, "Like when you don't want to see me, or when not to eat, or if I should make coffee in the morning." The thought had never occurred to him, but now it seemed like a good idea. "And what happens if I do something wrong."

"Roger… you should make coffee if you want coffee. You should eat if you're hungry. If you misbehave… uh…" There was one topic he and Angel had never discussed. It had been brought up, but always solved with a simple resolution to cross that bridge when they came to it. "If you misbehave, it depends. Probably you'll lose privileges, maybe be grounded."

The conversation paused as Roger hurled again. He sobbed dryly. Christmas had never been a great day for him, but having his stomach clenched in an iron fist of fire was pretty low.

People wanted to be happy on Christmas. Sometimes they even were.

"What do you think you've ever done that was wrong?" Collins asked. When Roger gave him a surprised look he said, "I don't mean misbehaving. Sometimes going against the rules is the right thing, no, wrong is… is moral."

That was when Roger began to cry. He shook, sobbing, clutching the vomit basin.

"Hey," Collins soothed, "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry. It's okay, Roger."

"No," Roger whined. His stomach rumbled and he coughed into the bowl, but all he had left was mucus and yellow bile.

No one, even Roger, would know if what happened next was intention or coincidence. He was crying and convulsing with the need to throw up, and Collins couldn't seem to help. And that was when Angel stepped into the room, and that was when Roger couldn't take the pain anymore, and a word spilled from his mouth with a perfection of timing that struck all of them for a long time:

"Mommy."

_To be continued._

Please leave a review? I'd really appreciate it.


	23. The Letters

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

_25 December. Christmas._

_Christmas when I was five was the last time I spent the holidays with my mother. Mommy was sick, but she could still move around. On Christmas Eve, we still did not have a tree. Mommy came into the den wearing a loose shirt and her sweatpants, with a green and blue scarf tied around her head. I was on the floor, I think playing with my plastic toys--trucks and horses and things. I looked up at her, but didn't dare get close. Daddy told me how much she needed her rest, or she might not get better._

_Even then, I did not understand. 'Might not get better' to me meant Mommy staying in bed for ever and ever, it didn't mean what he meant it to mean._

_"'Morning," Mommy said._

_"Merry Christmas," I said._

_"Already?" Mommy asked. She looked around at the television, the couch, and the table, nothing hinted of Christmas. "It can't be Christmas. John. John!" She turned and marched out of the room. I heard her talking to my father. They argued. Then he left._

_When she came back into the room, I was still sitting on the floor, holding a plastic horse in one hand and a Tonka truck in the other. I stared at her. She stood still for a moment, looking at me, then sank down onto the couch and asked me to bring her some juice. I spilled some, but that was okay, I knew, because Mommy was too tired to see it._

_I brought her the juice in a blue plastic cup with a twisty yellow straw. She drank a little, then leaned back on the couch. I watched her. She settled. I ran to the linen closet and brought her a blanket. She drank more of her juice and wrapped up in the blanket, then held out her arms to me._

_This was what I had waited for. I clambered onto her lap and snuggled against her breasts. She wrapped her arms around me and we both fell asleep there._

_We must have slept a long time, because when we woke up again--I woke up first, then tugged her awake--Daddy had set up the Christmas tree with ornaments and lights and everything. Mommy got up and made strings of popcorn and dried cherries, fighting my chubby fingers for ownership of the snacks._

_I remember, Daddy had to go out the following day. I don't know where he went, but I remember she got in bed and let me lay down with her in their big bed. She pulled the covers up almost over my head and let me just lay with her. Sometimes I still dream of how the room smelled then, like her, like essential humanity and sweat and spice._

_In my mind, that's when she stopped being well._

_--_

_Christmas the year I was six, the ambulance came to our house._

_Ellie, the neighbor who used to babysit for me, she's who I called. I rolled out of bed and padded down the hallway to Daddy's bedroom door. I didn't like going in there anymore. He never let me in bed to cuddle like Mommy did, and at night I thought there was a monster in there._

_Later, I would know it was just Daddy, crying._

_He taped a note to the door. The note said, "Don't come in." And I knew it was serious. The words were small. They took up only as much space as was necessary. I had trouble reading them, just sounded them out slowly. "Don't come in." I puzzled it out eventually._

_Later, I would have nightmares about what was beyond that door, but that Christmas day I just went down to the den and picked up the phone. Ellie's number was 555-6031. I dialed. Her father picked up. "Hello?"_

_"Hi, is Ellie there?" I said, using the phone manners my parents had taught me._

_He asked, "Who is this?"_

_"Roger Davis."_

_"Who?" Clearly, Ellie's father had no idea who I was._

_"Roger Davis."_

_He wasn't very happy with me at all. "Do you know what time it is?"_

_"No, Mister. Is Ellie there?"_

_"At this hour?" he demanded._

_I started to cry. I didn't know where my daddy was, or why I couldn't go into his room. The house was too quiet, and I didn't know how to turn on the heat, so I was cold. "Please, Mister, I don't know how to tell time yet, Mister! I'm sorry!"_

_"Can't tell time? How old are you?"_

_"Six."_

_"Six? Oh, shit. Ellie your babysitter?"_

_"Uh... Uh-huh," I blubbered. My breath condensed on the telephone receiver._

_"Okay. Hang on."_

_He put down the telephone. A moment later I heard my babysitter's voice. "Hello?" She sounded tired._

_"Ellie?"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"It's Roger. Could you come over please?"_

_"Right now?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Why? What's going on?"_

_"I don't KNOW!!" I wailed._

_"Okay. I'll be right there."_

_Ellie lived two doors down, and in no time at all there was a knock on the front door. "Roger," she called. "It's Ellie, please open the door." Then she came in._

_"Ellie!" After unlocking the door, I wrapped my arms around her legs and started crying._

_Ellie knelt. She wrapped her arms around me. "It's okay, Roger. We'll get this sorted." She locked the door and stepped into the room._

_I held the paper up to her. It was still clutched in my hand, stained and crumpled, my only link to my father now that he had locked me out of his bedroom. "Daddy left this."_

_"Hm." Ellie took the page from me. "Roger, have you had breakfast yet?" I shook my head. "Okay. Well, let's see if I can't fix you something to eat, then I'll go talk to your dad, okay?"_

_"He said don't go in his bedroom."_

_"I'll apologize."_

_Ellie was a bad girl sometimes. She let me stay up past my bedtime and play on her Gameboy, which Daddy said a little boy didn't need, and she brought over treats like Mallomars. I wasn't forbidden to have Mallomars, but Ellie always brought them hidden in her backpack like a secret, so I never said anything._

_She sat me at the table with toaster waffles and syrup and chocolate milk. "Eat up, okay?" she said. "I'll be right back."_

_When Ellie came back downstairs, her face was white. She was shaking. "R... Roger..." She looked at me, starting to cry. "Stay here, okay? I just need... one more moment..." And then she went into the den and I heard her on the telephone._

_When I had finished eating, she kept me at the table. We played a game of Candyland. Then there was a knock on the door and a group of men in blue jackets brought a stretcher into the house. I never saw my daddy again._

_After the ambulance came, Ellie stayed with me. She said, "Roger, do you know where your suitcase is?" I nodded. "Go and pack some clothes. As many as you can, okay? Go get packed."_

_"Why are you crying, Ellie?"_

_She rubbed her nose on her hand. "I... I stubbed my toe, is all. Go pack, Roger." That was a lie. Ellie hadn't stubbed her toe at all._

_And she took the photographs out of the albums and put them in an old cigar box._

Roger slipped down the stairs. He heard voices: Mimi and Allison, definitely. He heard Collins say something and Benny answer, and squabbling from Mark and Maureen. Was everybody in the front room? Roger wondered.

His tongue roved across his teeth. He had brushed them thoroughly that morning, scrubbing out the taste of vomit, and now Roger's breath was cool and minty. He had also swallowed gulps of cold water from the cup of his hands, and now he felt it sloshing around in his otherwise empty belly.

Roger wanted food, but he had taught his stomach not to growl. He didn't need to eat.

He managed to slip into the front room as quietly as possible. The room was such a flurry of activity and brightly colored paper as the family traded and unwrapped Christmas presents. Roger sat at Angel's feet.

"Hey, Roger," she said. He looked up at her and smiled. "We didn't want to wake you, to make sure you got enough sleep."

"Thank you."

"Sure, honey. Do you want to open a Christmas present?"

Roger hesitated, then nodded. Angel rose and stepped over to the tree; Roger's shoulders stiffened. _Come back come back come back_. He sighed when she sat down again and placed a gift in his lap.

It was then that Roger noticed how silent the room had grown. He flinched and pressed closer against Angel's legs. Angel cleared her throat. "Mimi, isn't that one for you? And I believe that present there is for Joanne."

They took the hint. For a moment the noise was awkward, except of course for Mimi. The ten-year-old trilled over the sheet of stickers in very realistic images of kitties. Then their normal chaos broke out. No one would ever accuse this family of silence.

Under this cover, Roger was able to slip the tape off the wrapping paper. He pushed away the wrapper and found what looked like every scrap in Angel's scrapbag.

Roger squeaked. He pushed out the scraps. They had been sewn together.

"Oh…" Collins looped an arm around Angel's shoulders. "Baby, I thought you were making that for his birthday," he said. This explained, at least, why Angel had disappeared for twelve hours yesterday.

Roger fingered the quilt. "Oh," he said.

"It's not as cold on his birthday," Angel told Collins. She stroked Roger's hair. "Do you like it?" she asked.

Roger nodded. He sniffled. Angel smiled and decided his other presents could wait. This was all Roger could handle, for now.

"A-Angel?" Roger asked. He sniffled and swabbed his eyes on the back of his wrist and handed her a piece of notebook paper, folded into thirds. Then he brought the quilt up and rubbed it against his cheek.

Angel unfolded the paper.

_25 December. Christmas…_

to be continued!

Each time you review, Roger gets a hug!!


	24. The Death Penalty

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playing with the characters.

Note: I had a huge amount of difficulty writing this chapter.

"Remember the pancake incident?" Benny asked, before even sitting down at the table.

Collins paused in the doorway and protested, "That was totally different."

Benny scoffed. "How?"

Mark and Maureen grinned at one another. They didn't get to hear this sort of reminiscent bickering at home, and they missed it between holidays. Roger was oblivious. He had his eyes fixed on the plate Benny had set in the center of the table, and he struggled to keep an expression of longing from his face. Whoever decided living off vegetables was a good idea had obviously never had bacon.

"How, I was ten, that's how."

"You were not ten, you were thirteen."

"I was ten."

"Twelve," Joanne said. "He was twelve."

"_Fine_," Collins ceded. Somehow the boys never thought to question Joanne's recollection. She could have told him he was twelve years old, wearing footie pajamas and talking to a unicorn, and someone would have said 'that's right' before realizing that it wasn't, mostly because of Collins' childhood obsession with feet.

"Think you could do it now?" Benny asked.

"I don't know and I don't care."

Maureen glanced at Mark. "You do it," she hissed quietly.

Mark shot a meaningful look at the adults. "I'm not exactly in good standing," he returned.

"Well I won't do it," Maureen insisted.

"Do what?" Roger asked. Mark and Maureen turned to look at him and he blushed.

"Ask what they're talking about," Maureen said.

"Oh."

"You do it," she said.

Roger shook his head emphatically.

"Oh, come on."

"Leave him alone, Maureen."

"You're not his keeper, Mark. No matter how kinky you find it!" she sneered in the affectionate way only sisters can.

Mark blushed furiously, but Roger seemed desperate to melt off his chair. "Maureen, shut up," Mark hissed.

"Make me."

Mark reached out to yank a tendril of her hair. Before he touched her, Roger interrupted: "Stop it!" he whimpered loudly, too loudly. Even the adults stopped bickering to watch him and see what was wrong. Roger hunched lower in his chair. Why had he gone and said that? He had wanted to make Maureen stop talking about it, but he had only exacerbated things.

Mimi pulled a thin, half-chewed braid from her mouth. "Can I have a pancake?" she asked, directing her questions towards the knot of adults at the door to the kitchen. Of the grown-ups, only Alison sat at the table.

"Of course you can," Benny said.

Mimi pointed. "You're still holdin' 'em," she told Collins.

"Oh, right!" Collins set the plate on the table and sat, half a beat behind the other adults. Roger took this opportunity to lift a piece of bacon off the table. That had been Benny's choice. Okay, Angel was a vegetarian and okay, Roger love Angel, but he missed meat. The bacon was salty and fatty. Roger felt his arteries clog deliciously.

Mimi grabbed for a pancake. Alison scolded her, but the protest was lost when the rest of the family grabbed their own pancakes and, in most cases, bacon. Collins watched Roger. Roger watched the bacon. He didn't touch it, but he watched it, his eyes big with longing. "Just do it," Collins told him.

"What?" Roger asked. He looked up as though surprised.

Collins pushed the plate towards him. Roger hesitated, then grabbed a few strips of bacon off the plate, deposited them on the plate and dribbled maple syrup over the entire meal.

Mimi's eyes were the size of eggs. "You eat _all that_ with syrup?" she asked.

Roger nodded.

"Whoa," Mimi said.

"Mimi," Benny warned, but Roger explained, "The syrup is filling. You never know when you're going to eat again." He cut a piece of pancake with his fork and stuck it in his mouth. It was good, syrup-soaked and chocolate-chipped.

"Were you homeless?" Mimi asked.

Benny coughed quietly. "Mimi, let Roger eat his food."

She looked up at him. "But I don't understand," she whined. "How come you couldn't eat?" she asked Roger. "Did you have allergies or something?"

Roger shook his head. "Sometimes my--"

But before he could finish, Alison stroked Mimi's hair and said, "I'll explain it to you later, okay, sweetie?" She gave Roger a meaningful look.

Collins opened his mouth. Who exactly did Alison think she was? As long as she was in his house--well, Angel's house, Collins reminded himself, but Angel wouldn't like it anymore than he did. Roger's past would be no secret. But before he could say anything, Benny broke in, "There's a case in Texas with a potential death penalty result."

"Texas," Collins repeated like a swear. "What'd the guy do? Turn in his library books a week late?"

"Maybe," Benny admitted. "'The guy' is a sixteen-year-old girl."

"Hey Maureen, you wanna die?" Collins asked.

Maureen shrugged. "Sometimes."

Joanne sighed. "Maureen," she said. "Do you want me to find you a therapist?"

"I know a good one," Collins volunteered.

"How?" The question was on everyone's mind, but it was Maureen who voiced it.

Collins shrugged. "I work in a college," he said. "Actually, I have some kids around Maureen's age--students," he explained, noticing Roger's baffled expression. "Who wouldn't want to die."

"It's not about what you want," Benny said, pushing a bolus of pancake into his cheek. "When you commit a certain crime, you are a danger to society. That's why the courts give prossibility of parole for remorse. If there's some guy saying, 'I killed the'--excuse me." He covered Mimi's ears. "'I killed the bastard and he deserved it,' that guy can fry." He removed his hands from her ears. "Just because Texans have quick trigger fingers doesn't mean these scum should walk the streets."

"I'd kill rapists," Maureen said. "What? Their victims have to live with it," she explained, returning the stares of her family.

Benny stabbed a piece of pancake with his fork. "But that's just it," he said. He popped the pancake in his mouth. "It's the victims' families. They are the lasting victims of murder. It's not an eye for an eye."

In a very gentle tone, Angel suggested, "Maybe victims' families don't think another life lost will make up for theirs. Another family without a child, or a parent, or--"

"It is not about the vitcims' families, it's about what's best for society," Benny interrupted. "It's about the safety of the people."

"Maybe some people don't deserve to live."

It was as quiet as Roger had ever heard the family, and all of their undiverted attention funneled directly to him. Roger stared at his plate, his hands flat against the tabletop. He breathed in and breathed out. His breath rattled like an old, rusted heating system, struggling to enter his body and fighting to leave it. The Christmas lights in the next room clicked on and off, and on and off. Benny swallowed, and the sound filled the room.

Roger's squeak was the next deliberate noise. "M..." he squeaked, and then, "May I be excused, please?"

Angel looked at Collins, and she wouldn't dare say what she was thinking because what she was thinking was that maybe there was nothing they could do for this boy. Maybe he was too far gone, and too broken. Maybe the abuse of the past few years had taken what goodness there was in Roger. Maybe he was hurt in ways they couldn't heal. Maybe he needed more than a mother.

"Please," Roger repeated. He looked at her, his eyes wet and his bottom lip wibbling. "Please may I be excused?"

"Yes--"

Benny interrupted, "What sort of crimes would you say earn the death penalty?"

Roger looked straight at him. "Putting little boys in dog cages," he said.

No one knew precisely what to say to that. No one could think of anything to say, because 'little boys' was clearly not a random name. It meant Roger. And what can be said to that? What expression of pity could possibly equate that horror?

"Okay." That was from Collins. "Okay," he said again, "sometimes the death penalty's okay."

Roger left the table.

_to be continued..._

Review? Pretty please?


	25. The Hungry Hungry Hippos

Disclaimer: I do not own RENT, Hungry Hungry Hippos, Mr Bubble, Smurfette, or any other copyrighted material.

Roger didn't come out of his room, nor did he open the door, throughout the course of the afternoon. Mark knocked first, calling Roger's name and asking to be let in. He said who he was, as though Roger didn't know. When he left the landing, he was crying and furious. The rain hurt him, wouldn't let him out of the house.

"Mark, do you want to play with us?" Mimi asked. Last Christmas, when she and Maureen were left at home with Angel, and Angel was downstairs at her sewing machine, Mimi and Maureen had pushed the furniture aside in the big not-quite-anything room and played jump rope. Maureen had been in more trouble than Mimi, but Mimi wouldn't do it again. She spent the majority of her remaining afternoon helping Maureen replace the furniture, and having a darned good time of it.

So she wasn't playing jump rope now. In fact she hadn't been allowed to bring her jumping rope at all because "your mom's not totally comfortable with my family", as Benny explained it to her.

"What does that mean?" Mimi had asked.

Benny paused for a moment, then explained, "It means when we were kids I wouldn't've put it past my siblings to play double-dutch and juggle bananas, all the while calling it physics homework. But your mom doesn't know that."

So Mimi left her jump ropes at home, and instead brought Hungry Hungry Hippos, as she now told Mark: "We're playing Hungry Hungry Hippos!"

"No, thanks," Mark said. "I'm not really a Hungry Hungry Hippos guy."

He went upstairs instead and sat in the doorway of the attic, letting little drops of rain spatter him. The tiny yard out back was getting the lion's share of the rain, but enough of it paused to dribble across the left side of Mark's body. His clothes soaked through. He wrapped his arms around his knees and watched the rain.

"Hey, Mark."

"Oh." Mark groaned and straightened up. It wasn't that he didn't love her, he did, but at the moment Joanne was the last person he needed to speak to.

"You okay?" she asked.

Mark shrugged. He scoffed. He wiped his wet face on his dry right sleeve and asked, "Should I be? I fucked up. Tom and Angel _hate_ me. Alison probably won't let me near her kid. And you think there's something wrong with me. And on top of all that, I didn't mean to hurt Roger. I really didn't."

"Mark." Joanne stroked down his wetly defiant hair. "Angel doesn't hate anybody. She doesn't know how. And you don't want to be around Mimi. You call her Microchiroptera."

Mark laughed. He shook his head. It was true that he and Maureen used that nickname for Mimi, but… "I didn't think you knew that," he said.

Joanne rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah," she returned, "I'm thick. You two cackle it when you're sharing a room. Come on, give me some credit."

Mark offered a weak smile in apology. "Sorry."

"Forgiven."

He swabbed at his eyes. "So what about the rest?" he asked. "Tom hating me and you thinking I'm messed up and Roger being hurt."

Joanne considered this for a long moment. She took a deep breath before answering, "Mark, I don't think you're messed up. I think you're lonely at school and I think you're incredibly horny and being as you are a seventeen-year-old boy, I think that defines good health. As for Tom and Roger, well… I'll never tell Tom this—and neither will you—but he needed something to wake him up."

"What?"

"I disagree with his parenting style." Joanne picked her words very carefully, then she leaned in and whispered for his ears only, "He doesn't know what he's doing." Mark chuckled, and Joanne did, too. "Just don't tell him that," she added. "It'll be our secret."

Mark grinned. "Yeah."

Joanne gave his hand a squeeze, then stood. "Stay up here as long as you like. Just remember the party tonight."

She made it almost to the stairs before Mark called, halting and hesitant and the quintessence of adolescence, "Mom?"

"Hm."

"…" Mark opened his mouth, closed it, shook his head and sighed. "Thanks," he said.

Downstairs, Joanne found Benny curled up on the couch, reading. He had his legs tucked under him and a blanket covering as much of his body as was possible. She sat next to him and didn't say anything. Benny went on reading. "Benny."

"Hm," he said, not looking up from his book.

"Benny," she said again.

"I'm listening," he lied.

Joanne jammed her toes into his thigh. Benny yelped and jumped. He closed the book gently, cleared his throat and said, "Am I to believe this will be a repeat of the Adirondack trip?"

"Yes."

He set the book aside. "Very well." He straightened up, handed her a corner of his blanket, and said, "What's on your mind, Jo?"

Joanne pulled a share of the blanket over herself. "My kid, your kid, Tom's kid."

"My kid the fetus, or my kid Microchiroptera?"

Joanne motioned helplessly. "Does _everyone_ know that name?"

"Just me, Maureen and Mark. I think. Oh, and you. Why, it's funny!"

"Fine. It's funny. But look, I'm not sure about Tom and Roger."

Benny snorted. "I've heard that sentence with Julian, Andrew, and the unforgettable Emilio."

Joanne kicked him again. "I'm serious!" she protested. "I'm worried about that kid."

"Who isn't?"

"I just… I don't know, Tom thinks Roger is him. And Roger isn't! He leaves him alone all the time. It's not good for him."

Benny nodded. "I agree," he admitted, "but I'm not sure what you hope to accomplish. Are you going to talk to him?"

"Probably not," Joanne admitted. "He'd get upset."

Benny tilted his head back and gave it a little shake of reminiscence. "Ah, our hypersensitive little brother. In all meanings of the term," he added, snickering.

"You're ticklish, too," Joanne reminded him.

"Uh, not as much as he is."

"Anyone I know?" Collins asked. He sat sideways on an overstuffed chair.

"Smurfette," Benny said.

"Smurfette isn't a he."

Joanne sighed. "Nice to see you, too, Tombola."

"So what are we all talking about?"

"We're criticizing your parenting style," Benny answered honestly. Joanne shot him a malicious look.

"Cheers to family," Collins decreed.

"Cheers," Benny echoed. He raised an imaginary glass and leaned forward to clink it against Collins' imaginary glass.

Collins imaginary drank. "Where is the little bat, anyway?"

"Benny!" Joanne cried, and Benny laughed.

"She's upstairs, playing Hungry Hungry Hippos with Maureen."

Collins laughed. "Hungry Hungry Hippos. Who invented that? It's better than Snooker."

Joanne gave him a strange look. "You hate Snooker," she said.

"So? It's real easy to be better."

--

They made it through the afternoon without incident. Maureen decided at 6 o'clock that she was in a bubblebath mood. Mimi jimmied the bathroom door open and perched on the toilet. A sign on the door stating "Warning: Estrogen!" was attributed to Mark's impish side, but no one truly believed that. Benny blamed Collins. Collins blamed Benny. "Just take credit," Collins said.

"Why? You did it."

"Even if I did, I have a surly teenager to talk with."

Benny laughed and shook his head. Angel rubbed Collins' arm. "Would you rather I talk to him?" she asked.

"No, I should. Guys? Could you try to rally your troops?" Collins asked, knowing the others would have an easier time of it. Maureen wouldn't want to get out of her jammies, until she learned she could dress as fancy as she liked. Mark would do as told, only pausing to pick a book to bring with him. Mimi was never a problem. Roger would be the officer from the ranks--the trouble without meaning to be. So when Collins knocked on Roger's door, he called out in a tone of alliance. "Roger, could you open the door please?"

Roger didn't.

Collins sighed. "Roger, I wasn't asking," he said. There were sounds within the room, little whimpers and footsteps. Then something heavy scraped along the floor, and the door opened. Roger stood in the doorway, his head bowed towards the floor. _Oh, jeez..._ "Um... we're going to a holiday party tonight. You can go like that if you want--" he said, indicating Roger's favorite outfit of blue jeans so worn the blue was only a tint and a cotton T-shirt that once had a picture on it but not was so thin the pink of his nipples was visible through the fabric "--but if you have something a little less, uh, casual..."

Roger nodded. "I understand," he said, but he was so nervous it came out as a whisper.

"Thank you."

Collins turned and walked away. He hadn't gone four feet but Roger called, "W-wait! I... I... these are... they fit right."

"Your other clothes don't?" Collins asked.

Roger shook his head.

"Oh, Roger... I wish you'd told us."

Roger looked at his feet. His hair flopped forward. "Sorry."

"Oh, no, I didn't mean it that way. Let's see if Mark will lend you something tonight. Hey, Mark!"

Mark poked his head out from the spare room. "Don't go in the bathroom," he said. "Maureen is stuffing Mimi's bra."

"Oh, God," Collins groaned. "I understand your gayness. Do you have anything nice you can lend to Roger for tonight?"

For a moment, Mark was in silent in thought, then he nodded. "I have the old Hamlet my library put on the dock!"

He disappeared into the room, but Collins called him back. "Mark!" He chuckled. "Mark... only you, Mark. No, Roger needs clothes."

"He's wearing clothes."

"And yet you're staring at his nipples." The comment caused both boys to blush, and Collins mentally slapped himself. It was okay to say that to his siblings, not to their kids, and especially not to his. Mark disappeared into his bedroom and emerged with a pair of pants and a shirt. He shoved them into Collins' hands, then slammed the door. Collins sighed. "Joanne," he called, "I made it worse!"

"So fix it, Thomas!" she called back.

"Roger, go try these on, okay?" Collins said. He handed Mark's clothes to Roger and knocked on the door. "Mark, I'm coming in, okay?"

Mark was standing in the corner, head in his hands. "Hm. Interesting. Mark, your mom talked to you earlier, right?" Collins asked.

"Yeah." Mark looked up. "Yeah, you don't have to do this."

"Maybe I think we need follow-up. Mark... can you talk to me, not like a child? Can you be an adult?"

Mark nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I can."

The house was too big for a couple, even a couple with a child. They hadn't bought it. Angel inherited the house from her grandmother and they moved in. The bed Collins now sat on was the same bed in which Angel had been conceived. (Different sheets). He jerked his head, and Mark sat beside him. "When your dad left, remember, you stayed here for a while?"

Mark nodded. "Yeah," he said. "It was weird, everyone here when it wasn't a holiday."

"Benny wanted to move in with you guys. He had this idea that you needed a man around. Joanne hated that. But you two were the only kids in the family at that point. We all felt like you were kind of ours."

"Great," Mark spat, "so I tried to fuck my _brother._"

"Hey," Collins snapped in his best no-nonsense tone. "Adult, remember?"

"Sorry. Go on."

"Good job. What I'm trying to tell you, Mark, is that I was pretty pissed off at you, that doesn't mean I don't love you."

There was a knock at the door and it opened. "Um," Roger said. He looked at Mark and Collins, then at himself, his ankles poking out from the too-short pants and his wrists from too-short sleeves, but the shirt hung like a tent otherwise. Collins covered his mouth, too close to laughing for his own good. "Oh, Roger," he said. "I am so, so sorry. Okay. You can wear your own jeans and, uh, I guess borrow one of my shirts. It'll be big on you, but it's better than..."

Roger nodded and headed back to his own room to change clothes.

"Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"It... it wasn't wrong, really, what you tried with Roger. There's no shame in sex. What bothers me is that you don't think of Roger as a member of your family. If he had been any other boy and you slept with him, that wouldn't be a problem. He's supposed to be family."

"We're a fucked up family," Mark decreed.

"Strike two. You don't think Roger's part of your family?"

"I don't know. I mean... Mom told us that you and Angel were adopting a little boy. I thought she meant a _little_ boy, maybe two or three years. The first time I saw Roger..." Mark shook his head. "It didn't even occur to me that he was yours. I swear, I thought... I didn't even know until he led me back here. I thought he was just some kid. And by that time we had already... you know..."

"What?"

"Kissed. We kissed in the park. I didn't know, and I didn't... I don't..."

Collins placed an arm around Mark's shoulders. "You know what sucks?" he said. "We had a tough situation. It wasn't anyone's fault, but we were able to make it look like yours. I'm sorry I did that, Mark."

Mark shrugged. "You were just coping," he said.

"Then you'll forgive me?"

Mark looked up at Collins. He blinked. "I... um... yeah, of course," he said. "I forgive you."

Collins nodded. "Thank you," he said. Then, lightly, "Now, let's go find Roger a shirt before he shows up topless to the party."

_to be continued...!_


	26. The Party

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

Professor Adrienne Elba took one look at the group on her doorstep and said, "Wow."

Collins grinned. "Merry Christmas to you too, Aidy."

"I'm sorry, it's just, dios mio Thomas it's usually just you and Angel, I had no idea you had such a large family. Hi, I'm Adrienne."

Collins rattled off the familiar introductions. "Guys, Adrienne. Adrienne, this is Joanne, her kids Mark and Maureen; Benny—he's a Republican—" Benny kicked Collins' ankle "—his wife Alison and her daughter, Mimi; Angel you know and _this_ is Roger. He's our son," he announced in a tone of pride that practically made Roger glow.

This little speech was punctuated by greetings and handshakes. Mark held back and gave a little wave. Roger, when his turn arose, blushed hot pink and shook Adrienne's hand. "It's very nice to meet you, ma'am," he mumbled, looking at her shoes.

"Well, come in." Adrienne stepped back. "The kids have taken over the upstairs. Girls are in Annie's room, boys are in Micah's room, and the triplets' room is set up for any kids who get tired. And steer clear of the mathletes, they're in their cups and overflowing," she added wryly to the adults.

Everyone was yanking off coats and sweaters. Many bodies filled the house with heat and noise. "Since when do we get mathletes at these things?" Collins asked.

"I have no idea," Adrienne said. "Christmas miracle?" she suggested with a helpless shrug, then melted into the crowd.

Maureen and Mark raced upstairs. Mimi hurried after, calling to her cousins to wait for her. The adults joined their party easily. Angel glanced at Collins. He gave her a look promising to take care of it, then rested a hand on Roger's back. "Hey. You okay?"

Roger nodded.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. If you feel uncomfortable and you need to leave, just find me or Angel. It's just a few blocks. We'll take you home."

"Okay."

He wouldn't do that. Not on his life. At least, not as long as he believed it might jeopardize his placement. "The kids are upstairs, but you can stay here if you want."

"Roger."

He focused on a stain on the rug. In the complex pattern it was difficult to detect, but Roger saw. "Yes?"

"Roger, look at me."

He did. He did a few other things. He flinched, and he heard a voice he didn't want to hear. Unconsciously, Roger wrapped his hands around his upper arms. Collins struggled between pity for what the kid had been through, and despair that Roger would ever accept him. He touched Roger's hair lightly. "Try to have fun tonight."

Roger nodded dutifully, in a way that made Collins want to say, _No, I mean it. Seriously._ He didn't, just gave Roger's shoulder a pat that made the boy jump and headed off. He had a very interesting conversation to continue with Victoria Sezrakian (Linguistics).

After standing awkwardly for a moment, Roger turned and headed upstairs.

In Annie Elba's bedroom, Maureen sat on the floor. "Pretty Pink or Blowsy Blue?" she asked, holding two glass bottles in front of Mimi.

Mimi pointed. "Pink," she announced, pointing to the bottle with silver-pink paint inside.

"Okay."

Mimi giggled as Maureen began brushing coats of thick paint onto her toenails.

In the next room, Mark was greeted with an extended hand and a greeting of, "John Kelly, Anatomy." The remaining boys took no notice of him. There were about five of them, mostly pimply, shaggy creatures who Mark would, under normal circumstances, intentionally avoid.

Mark shook John's hand. "What?" he asked. John Kelly was a lanky boy with a pair of jeans slipping below his waistline and no shirt.

"Name. And what do you parents do?"

"Mark Cohen. My mom's a lawyer?"

"Then what are you doing at a college party?" John Kelly demanded.

"My uncle. Philosophy."

John Kelly nodded, and he let Mark in. "You comin'?" he called to a boy who stood in the hallway. The boy looked up, glanced around, then shook his head. John shrugged. Same to him either way. He shut the bedroom door.

--

Roger walked halfway down the stairs and stopped. From above him, he heard girls laughing and boys laughing and swearing. Below him, the noise of dozens of chattering adults combined into a loud, smooth babble. He saw a few of them. Roger knelt and pressed his face against two railing supports. There were so _many_ of them. He watched a short woman with short, uneven hair weave through the crowd. He frowned. He didn't like her. She didn't look like a professor. Roger knew, in fact, that she wasn't a professor. All the professors moved like Collins: they were relaxed. They took their time. This woman didn't.

She walked out of the room.

Roger picked another person to watch. This one was male. He wore a short ponytail and stood away from most of the others.

Roger shook his head. _That _thought had been quite uncharitable, though he had to admit, the only guess he could make at this man's identity was arrogant art school son of a professor or young, slick piece of ass.

He shifted his gaze to a plump woman with frizzy hair. She was a professor. M.F.A., he guessed. She secretly believed in fairies.

Joanne sat alone on an old armchair, sipping wine from a long-stemmed glass. Roger wondered who she was in the secret part of her heart. Someone who didn't belong, he thought. Someone who didn't expect to belong. He thought of Benny and Collins' political arguments. They couldn't be more than a few years apart in age. Joanne was older. She had probably spent most of her childhood left out, considered one of the "grown ups".

Roger spent the better part of ninety minutes playing his game before his tummy churned. He was undeniably hungry. Below, people carried paper plates with food on them, holding napkins between their fingers and plastic cups of sparkling beverage. Roger could nip down and grab something. He didn't care what. It was finger food, it would fit in his pockets. He knew where the food came from. He just needed a moment when none of Collins' relatives were in the room.

Someone who didn't know him, wouldn't see him.

Benny came in. Roger's heart leapt. Benny would fetch Joanne out! But he only had a few words with her before giving her a gentle sock on the shoulder and walking out again. Joanne sighed and stood. She walked towards the bathroom. Roger stood and began heading downstairs, but before he made it to the floor Joanne returned and headed for the stairs in obvious need of the upstairs bathroom. Roger turned and fled. He ducked through the first door he saw.

"¿Quién eres?" asked a small voice.

Roger looked up. A little girl sat by a windown with her knees drawn up to her chest. She couldn't've been more than six years old. She wore a white nightgown, which she had pulled over her knees, and had huge eyes. He thought for a moment. _Who are you_, she had asked. "Um. Roger," Roger said. "¿Y tú?"

The girl laughed. "No necesito contestar los preguntas de tú. Eso es _mi _cuarto." _I don't have to answer your questions. This is MY room._

Roger shrugged. "Siento," he murmured, _sorry, _and turned to leave.

"¡No!" the girl yelped. "¡No! Quiero hablar. No tengo nadie. Tú puedes quedarse conmigo. ¿Por favor?"

Roger paused. He sighed. She wanted to talk. She had no one, and, as she had said, he could stay. He glanced at the other children sleeping in the room. One of them he recognized as Benny's little girl. "No eres sola," he told the little girl. "No eres sola porque tienes los hadas." _You're not alone because you have fairies._

"Hadas?" the little girl repeated. "¡No hay hadas¡Eres mentiroso!" _There aren't fairies, you're a liar!_

"Hay hadas," Roger informed her, mock offended. He crossed the room and sat with her. "Siempre hay hadas." _There are always fairies._ He held out his hands as it for a bird to alight. "Y si quieres hablar con un amigo, hay hadas. Y hadas aman escuchar." _If you want to talk with a friend, there are fairies. And fairies love to listen._ He stroked the air, mimicking the curve of a tiny head.

--

"Excuse me. Excuse me, have you seen my aunt Angel? She's tall and has short hair. Oh. Sorry, mister, thanks for your time. 'Scuse me." Mimi tugged on the first hand she bumped into. "'Scuse me, but have you seen my aunt Angel?"

The woman Mimi had asked thought, then nodded. "She went in there, I think," she said, pointing.

"Thanks, miss." Mimi took off in the direction the lady had indicated. She pushed through the throng of people, apologizing as she went and only considering enough to half mean it. When she found Angel, she jumped into her conversation. "Aunt Angel!"

Angel paused. "Excuse me," she said to a French professor. "What is it, honey?"

Mimi gave a big, gap-toothed grin. "You gotta come," she said, giving Angel's hand a tug.

"Where?" Angel asked.

But Mimi only answered, "You gotta come, it's about Roger!" And those words worked magic on Angel. She followed Mimi upstairs and to the bedroom where the younger children had fallen asleep. It was with great relief that Angel saw kids clustered around Roger, listening as he spoke at length:

"...y no es posible mandar una hada. Ellos vengan cuando quieren venir. Pero, si quieres una hada para hablar o porque eres triste o sola, invite una hada como eso." _...and it's not possible to order a fair. They come when they want to come. But, if you want a fairy to talk or because you're sad or alone, invite a fairy like this. _He held out his hand and gasped as a fairy alit on his finger. "Hola, amiga," he said. He petted her hair. "Esos son mis otros amigos. Ellos quieren encontrar una hada." _These are my friends. They want to meet a fairy._

"No hay hada," protested a little boy. _There's no fairy._

"No puedes ver la hada porgue no crees en las hadas," Roger informed him matter-of-factly. _You can't see the fairy because you don't believe in fairies._

At that announcement a girl was quick to speak up: "Yo lo vio!" _I see it!_ And the other children chimed in that they, too, could see the fairy. Roger touched his fingertip to the fingertip of a child to allow the fairy to walk across. The children clustered around for a look.

Angel gave Mimi a gentle hug. "Thank you for bringing me," she whispered.

--

Joanne opened the door to the bedroom where the girls were hanging out. "Has anyone seen Mauren?" she asked.

"Umm..." The girls exchanged glances. "Not for at least half an hour."

"Okay. Thanks girls." Joanne retreated and shut the door. She frowned. She had already checked downstairs and in the bathrooms. The only other place to look, Joanne, supposed was in the boys' room. _Oh, god._ Given the brilliant example her big brother was setting, that was a distinct possibility. Joanne sighed. She considered herself a good mother. She loved her children. But she had trouble reconciling the Christmas Eve fiasco with her Mark.

She knocked before entering the guys' bedroom. Mark was on the floor, playing some kind of board game, but he looked up when Maureen entered. There were only three boys remaining. "Are we leaving?" Mark asked.

Joanne nodded. "As soon as I can find Maureen. Have you seen her?"

"Not since we got here," Mark said.

"Okay. Go stay with Benny and Alison downstairs."

"But Mom--"

"Go."

Mark sighed and rolled his eyes, but he said good-bye to the other boys and stepped over the game. "I don't know where Roger is, either," Mark muttered.

It was the first time Collins would consider himself lucky with Roger. He found the boy curled up, asleep. Prepubescent girls were curled together in beds, sucking thumbs and braids. Roger was on the floor, curled around himself. He looked cold, but happy.

"Hey." Collins knelt and shook Roger's shoulder. "Roger. Wake up for a little bit. Come on."

"Wha... 'm hungry," Roger murmured.

"You can eat at home. Come on."

"Ooh." Roger sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Oh," he said again.

Collins offered his hand and hauled Roger to his feet. "Up you get, big guy. Come on." Roger was sleepy enough to accept this help, and a steady hand on the stairs, since Roger was moving like a sleepwalker.

He wasn't the only one. The assembled family outside included Mimi, half-asleep in Benny's arms; Mark yawning and scrubbing his eyes; and the jewel of the evening, Maureen, giggling while Joanne held her shoulder tightly. "Have y'ever no'iced 'at Roger's... 'e's a... he... he's so shy... Roger's like a cactus!"

"You'll have to excuse my daughter," Joanne said, "she's drunk."

_to be continued!_

...bet'cha didn't see that coming! Review? Pretty please?


	27. The Goodbyes

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

"Evita!" Mimi called in her loudest whisper. Her slippers whispered across the floor. "Evita!" She hurried through the house, her blue cotton nightgown wrapping around her wool-clad shins. She clutched her sweater tightly around her body and ran up the stairs. Her socks slicked on the steps, and she rotated her knees in knobby ovals.

"Evita!"

The dog was nowhere to be found. Mimi had checked the yards at the front and back of the house. She had looked under the Christmas tree and under the table and by the stove in the kitchen. She had checked her Aunt Angel's sewing room, where Evita wasn't but the fabrics were bright, and the laundry room was warm and filled with a comfortingly regular sound.

The dog wasn't there.

So Mimi had left the downstairs and headed up to the attic. As she ran, she pressed her tongue against the nubby things poking through her gums where her front teeth had been.

The light in the attic was surprisingly pure, but it was mostly dank and quiet and not at all doggish.

Evita wasn't in the bathroom, and all the other doors except one were fully closed. Mimi sighed. She placed her hands firmly on her little hips, jammed her tongue between her lips, and pushed open the door.

"Evita!" she hissed, scanning the floor. "Ev—oh." Roger wasn't moving, but his eyes were open and staring at her in the most disconcerting manner. "I… I'm sorry," she stammered. "I'm Mimi."

Roger's right arm rested over the dog's warm body. He nodded. "I know," he whispered.

"Right," Mimi said. "I was looking for the dog," she said, pointing. "But you could keep her."

"No, no, it's okay." Roger sat up, and Evita stirred.

"Umm… do you know it's snowing?" Mimi asked.

"Is it?"

"Yeah. And everyone's asleep. Do you want to come and watch it snow with me and Evita?"

Roger looked at her evenly with an expression she couldn't begin to read. Mimi shivered. Her heels rose as her entire body fought the urge to step back. Only the dog seemed perfectly content.

Then, quite slowly, Roger nodded. "That would be nice," he said. He climbed out of bed. Mimi squealed, tried to look away, then just stared at Roger's underpants. "I don't have any pajamas," he explained.

"But you do have a _thing_."

Roger looked down. Oh. That. "All guys do," he says. "Didn't your mom tell you where babies come from?"

Mimi shook her head.

"Oh. Ask her, then."

Mimi pointed at the drawers under Roger's bed. "Angel and Collins put your new clothes there," she said. Roger gave her a curious look. "They didn't think you'd be able to open your Christmas presents, so they took all the clothes and put them away in your room." All the while, she couldn't seem to stop looking at the bulged area of his underpants. (Roger hadn't had a new pair of underpants in some time)

Roger squatted down and opened the first drawer. He found a pair of sweats and pulled them on. Mimi glanced at his crotch again, then said, "Do you want to watch it snow?"

Roger nodded.

In the kitchen, Mimi asked, "Are you allowed to cook?"

"I don't know," Roger admitted. He had never considered that before, just assumed that he would be allowed to.

Mimi shrugged. "I think you are. Maureen and Mark are, they just don't ever do it until someone tells them to. I'm not. Could you make breakfast?"

Roger opened the refrigerator door. "Are leftovers okay?" he asked. "There's some lasagna."

"Yeah, that's good," Mimi said. She petted Evita's head and watched as Roger found some aluminum foil and wrapped it around a piece of lasagna, then placed it in the oven. "Okay," Mimi said. "Let's watch it snow, okay?" She opened the door and sat on the steps. "Come on, Roger!"

Nervously, Roger sat. This wasn't so far from some of the other homes he'd been in. What if someone found him here? It was safe inside. Roger barely left the house, and this was why. Just a few feet away, he felt fear. He wasn't _safe_.

Mimi began to talk. "You know, I wasn't born into this family," she said. "Benny's not my real daddy, my real daddy died when I was two or three, but I like Benny okay. I just wanted you to know that I've done it, too, had to get used to them. It's kinda scary at first. There's like this rhythm everyone can hear but you? Everyone knows each other so well. Joanne and Collins and Benny are on the phone with each other _all_ the _time_. But the neat thing about being in thie family is that no one acts like you just came into it, no one keeps you out. You know how my mom doesn't really hide that she doesn't like Collins so much? Well, he doesn't care, he treats her like he'd treat anyone else."

"Collins is a good guy," Roger mumbled.

"You don't really think that," Mimi said.

"He's not bad," Roger said. He knew that much for sure. "What was it like when you first met the family?"

Mimi shrugged. "I thought they were awesome. But I was only eight. How come you never told Angel you speak Spanish?"

"She never asked."

"You should've told her."

Roger didn't say anything. He just watched the way the snow fell, quiet and soft. The back yard was disappearing. Maybe they could throw snowballs later on, though Roger didn't think he would actually throw a snowball at anyone. It was nice and quiet outside, and that seemed to extend into the house, placing Roger and Mimi in the middle of two storms of gentle noise.

"'Morning, guys."

Roger jumped half a foot. "I-I-I-I was j-just going upstairs..."

"No," Collins told him. "Stay. I want to talk to you." Roger hugged his knees.

"Umm..." Mimi looked between the two. "I think I'll go keep the tree company," she said. She stood and walked out of the room. Evita followed.

Roger bit down a swear word. He set his gaze hard on the fence as Collins sat beside him. Roger's nerves grated more when Collins didn't talk. He didn't say anything, didn't ask any questions, just sat and watched the snow fall. Roger bit his lip. He didn't think anything, didn't know what to think. The snow was pretty. The world was quiet. And Roger Davis was losing his mind.

"Angel owes you ten dollars," Roger blurted. It was the first thing that came to mind.

Collins blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected Roger to talk. "What?" he asked.

"From the bet," Roger said. "Angel thought she won. She didn't."

"What... oh." Then Collins remembered what the last bet had been. He rested a hand on the back of Roger's head. "Oh, Roger."

Roger curled on himself, hugging his knees tightly. "I'm sorry," he whimpered.

Collins rubbed his back. "Is there a reason you're telling me this?" he asked. There was no answer. "We can get you help, Roger."

Roger shook his head. "No," he whined. "_No. _If you want to get rid of me I can go back to the orphanage, but--"

"Roger, we're not getting rid of you. We're not sending you away."

"Don't worry. You will."

Had anyone else said that, Collins would have taken offense. Anyone else who informed him of his future actions, especially actions he found distinctly _wrong_, would have dealt with Collins at his absolute worst-- and Collins at his absolute worst was pretty damn scary, as witnessed by his sister's kids and about a thousand students. Whether because this was his son or because of Roger's history, Collins kept himself calm. "I won't," he said, "and neither will she. Roger, you need to talk to someone. Everything you've been through... no one can handle that alone. Whether you talk to us or to someone else, I want you to talk. It's your choice."

--

The others left that day. Roger shook Benny's hand, and Alison's and Joanne's, then went up to his room and didn't come down. Mimi went up and said good-bye and hugged him. Maureen paused long enough to say, "'Bye, Roger. Look, Mark's kind of stupid, but he's a nice guy."

Roger nodded and didn't say anything. Downstairs, Mark looked to Joanne. She sighed. "All right. Five minutes." Mark winced. Five minutes. Not long enough to do any lasting damage--or maybe he had already done that. He went upstairs, anyway, and knocked on Roger's door before going in.

"Hey," Mark said.

Roger had his forehead pressed to the windowpanes. "Hey," he said. He didn't turn.

"Look... I... Things got out of hand," Mark said. This would be easier if he could see Roger's face. Just Roger's back, a black sweater and curly hair that actually looked golden like cheesy romance novels claimed, made it hard to say goodbye. Or without the final three words. "I never meant to hurt you."

Roger shrugged. "You should go," he said.

"I didn't know," Mark insisted.

"Okay," Roger said.

"I really meant..." But Mark had to stop. What had he meant? What had he _done_?

"Okay," Roger repeated. He turned, and Mark recanted his wish to see Roger's face. "I think you should go now."

_to be continued!_


	28. The New Year

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

Tom Collins sighed. He closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around Angel and rested his head on her shoulder.

Angel smiled. She held his hand. "You miss your family, don't you?" she asked.

"Mhm," he murmured, nodding against her neck. He kissed her. "I love you."

"I know. I also know how you can feel better about Joanne and Benny being gone."

"Really?" Neither of them had ever tried to end his sulks before. He seemed to enjoy them, anyway. "What's that?"

Angel said, "Go and get your son downstairs for dinner."

Collins chuckled. "You really are a devil woman, you know that, right?" he asked.

"You shouldn't say that. He hears everything. Come on, we talked about this."

"Yeah, we did," he ceded. "Okay. He'll be down in a moment." They heard footsteps upstairs and the sound of a door closing quietly. Collins sighed. "Okay, he'll be down in two moments," he amended. He gave Angel a gentle squeeze before heading upstairs. He knocked on Roger's bedroom door. "Roger," he called. "Could you come out, please?" When he received no answer, he continued, "Roger, I'm not going away. I just want you to come downstairs for dinner, okay?" He waited. Roger said nothing. Collins gritted his teeth. He knocked again and called, "I'm not kidding, Roger."

The door opened. Roger stood with his head bowed and his shoulders curled inward. "Yes?" he whispered.

"Come downstairs," Collins said. Roger nodded, and followed him downstairs. He pointed to the table. "Go ahead and sit down," Collins said, because he somehow knew that Roger would only do so if told.

"Hey." Angel kissed Roger's hair. "It's nice to see you out of your room."

"Hi, Angel," Roger murmured.

"Eat," she urged him. Only in this household did they believe in macaroni and cheese for dinner. Roger took a bite. Wow. He was almost certain there was string cheese in this, and it was delicious.

"We've decided on a set of rules for this year," Collins said, and Roger immediately stiffened. He set down his fork. "No more staying in your room all the time. We want to get to know you, Roger."

For a moment, no one spoke. Angel watched Roger, waiting for him to speak or show some recognition. Then Roger said, very quietly, "Or?"

"There's no 'or', honey," Angel said. "Also, nighttime is for sleeping. No chores after lights out, okay?"

Roger nodded.

"And," Collins said, nudging Angel.

"Bed time is at midnight," she added. Roger murmured something. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

Roger look at his plate. His hand shook on the table. "What if I have to go to the bathroom?" he repeated.

"Oh, no, no, you can leave your room after that if you want to go to the bathroom or get a snack or something, but we'd like you to try to be sleeping. You're not allowed to do chores then, though."

Roger nodded. He could follow that.

"And Collins is going to check your homework every night."

That got a reaction. Roger immediately jumped to defend himself: "I do it!" he insisted. "I do!" he told Collins. "I just... mess up sometimes..."

"No, we know that," Collins assured him. "Your grades are great. We just want to make sure things stay that way. Also, if you have friends over, no closed doors unless there are at least three people there. And no," Collins said when Roger opened his mouth, "that does not apply to the bathroom. Do you have to pee at this moment?" Roger nodded vigorously. "Ok, go do that and come back."

Roger leapt out of his chair and sprinted up the stairs. After the bathroom door had closed, Collins laughed into his hand. Angel smacked him with her napkin. "What, that was funny!" he insisted.

"Do you think he's doing all right?" Angel asked. "He isn't eating."

"He's just not used to it."

"Could you be any more male about this?"

"I'm sorry, Ang, but I do have a penis."

When Roger returned, he sat down and took another big bite of macaroni and cheese. "Roger," Angel said gently, "there's one more thing. If there are rules, there need to be consequences for breaking them. Is there anything that worked especially well for you in the past?"

"Oh." Roger looked at his plate. Suddenly he didn't feel hungry. Suddenly Angel's delicious macaroni and cheese made him sick, leaden in the pit of his stomach. He moaned. "Well. Belting. Cages. I c-can't do anything wrong if I'm locked up. Dark. I don't like dark. Ice. Y-you can put me in a tub full of hot water and make me stay until it's freezing. It hurts every part of my body. Beating. Anything, you can use anything for that. Cold. Being locked outside or just turn on the cold water in the shower. Burns. Hose, turned on full blast," he said, indicating his mouth. "No food or no sleep, no bathroom, no getting out of bed. Putting liquid soap in my mouth. Putting my hand in bleach. Holding me by the hair. Strangling me. No--"

"Honey, that's... it's not..."

Roger looked up at Angel. She had her hand over her mouth and she was staring at him with tears in eyes, streaking down her cheeks. He gaped. His mouth flopped. "I... I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm really sorry."

"It's okay," Collins said, and Roger saw that he was crying, too.

Oh, God. They'd asked. He hadn't meant to hurt anyone, certainly hadn't meant to make them cry. They had _asked_, he thought they wanted _answers_. "I... I... didn't... I thought you wanted..." Roger whimpered weakly, then he turned and fled up to his bedroom. He stripped off his jeans and pulled on his new pajamas, put his jeans in the laundry bag on the floor, then got in bed. Roger pulled the covers up to his eyes and tensed every muscle in his body.

He heard the footsteps on the stairs, every single heavy landing and squeak of wood, and squeezed his eyes shut. _Go into your own room,_ Roger urged him silently. _Go to bed. Forget what I said. It was stupid, it's impossible, don't, please don't. I haven't been bad. I haven't. I'm not bad. Don't come in here._ But the door did open, and Collins stepped into the room.

"Roger?" he asked quietly. "I know you're awake."

Roger sat up. He pulled the quilt over him and held it tightly in his fists. His organs seemed to float and squeeze. Collins sat behind him and rested a hand on his back. Roger whimpered. "I'm _sorry,_" he insisted, and then he began to cry.

"Shh." Collins hugged him. "You're okay," he promised. "You're safe."

"I didn't mean to hurt anybody," he whimpered. "I didn't. I'm sorry. I swear I didn't."

Listening to his own sobs, Roger didn't hear Angel until she knocked on the wall. The door was wide open. "Could I join you?" she asked, then sat down on the bed. Most of Roger was engulfed in Collins' hug. Angel slipped her hand into his.

That was how they met the new year.

_to be continued!_

...review? Pretty please?


	29. The Chocolate

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

After Christmas, when the family had left and Collins returned to work, Angel felt the house breathe a sigh of relief and slump its shoulders. She patted the walls gently. "I know," she told them. "I know. But you love it as much as I do. It's just tiring," she muttered to herself. And Angel wandered into the kitchen and broke her ban on meat, as she did every end-of-the-year, with the bacon and egg sandwich no one would ever know about.

As she bit into it, leaning against the counter, she wondered how she went a year without this. Somehow Angel's principles flew out the window when she tasted bacon. She wondered if Collins would think less of her for it. Or would he think she was just losing her idealism with age? There was a frightening thought. Angel didn't like to be considered old, and she certainly didn't consider _herself_ old and didn't like the idea that anyone else would. Not that this particularly mattered, though, because all of this hinged on anyone discovering that she ate meat, and Angel did not plan on anyone discovering that.

The upstairs toilet flushed.

_Shit!_ How long had he been awake? Angel finished her sandwich quickly, sucked on her fingertips, then washed up the dishes. She smiled to herself, pleased to have committed the perfect crime.

Crouched on the stairs, Roger looked at his grumbling tummy and sighed. So much for breakfast. _Be patient,_ he reminded himself. He always got food eventually, especially in this house. He liked this placement. Roger intended to do everything he could to stay with Collins and Angel. He watched as Angel washed the dishes. When she headed for the stairs he fled, as quietly as he could, to his bedroom. He left the door open a crack to be sure Angel didn't hear the click.

It wasn't too late, the sun not fully risen yet, but late enough that the streets were bright. Roger snuck a book out from under his pillow and cracked it open. He squinted to read in the dim light.

When the shower went on in the bathroom, Roger reached one pale arm out of bed and let the lamp click on. The words on the page jumped up at him. Roger smiled, snuggled deeper under the blankets and read. When he emerged from the book, the shower was off. Roger shook his head. He looked at the clock.

Oh.

Almost an hour had passed.

Roger slipped the bookmark into the book. He tucked the book under his pillow again, then slipped out of bed. He lowered his feet carefully, only causing the tiniest thump when they touched the ground. He padded over to the door to shut it gently before taking off his pajamas. Angel was nice, but Roger didn't want her to see his body. He didn't want anyone to see his body. That was the point, it was _his_, and it was all that would ever be undeniably, unrevokably his.

He also didn't want Angel seeing his scars. Roger hadn't been out of his pajamas in a few days. He had changed for he party because Collins said he had to, but other than that Roger hadn't taken off his pajamas since what happened with Mark. Now, as he crouched by his drawers wearing nothing but his underwear, Roger was all too aware of what he didn't want Angel seeing. Already she winced seeing his hand. Originally she had been polite, glancing away from the odd splash of flesh. Now she knew what it was, and every time she saw it she looked like she might cry.

The drawers, practically empty two weeks ago, now contained the clothes he had been given as Christmas presents. He pulled out a pair of jeans. The waist sagged when he buttoned them up, but they would do. Some of the shirts were new, from the store. Roger let his fingers trail across the fabric. His stomach sloshed around emptily. The new shirts mostly had collars, which Roger liked. The ones that didn't come from the store came from Angel's workshop. He recognized the fabrics. One of his favorites was a white background with dark blue comets and stars and galaxies.

When his hand returned a third time to pet the universe on the shirt, Roger picked it up and buttoned it. He smoothed his clothes and then, satisfied that as few scars as possible shower, he went downstairs.

Angel sat on the couch with two thin kniting needles in her hands. Five or so inches of cherry red fabric sprouted from her needles. "H-hey," Roger stammered.

Angel looked up at him and smiled. "Hey, honey," she said. "You wanna come sit down?" Roger answered by crossing the room to sit beside her on the couch. He twisted his fingers together in his lap and watched the way Angel's needles poked through the yarn loops and pulled out new ones, and somehow this made the crinkled fabric growing from the purple-coated steel needles. The fabric fascinated Roger. How did Angel make it? How did it crinkle up like that? Could he do it?

But Roger didn't like those needles. They looked sharp and mean. He shied back from them, though the cloth kept growing.

"Did you sleep okay?" It sounded stupid and Angel knew it sounded stupid, but she needed to say something to him.

"Fine," Roger whispered.

Angel asked him, "Do you want to do anything today?"

Roger shook his head. He didn't care. Breakfast would be nice.

Angel set her needles down. Roger suppressed a sigh: he wanted to see more of that cloth. That desire shriveled, unimportant suddenly when she turned to him. "Roger," Angel said. "Talk to me."

"C... can..." Can I have something to eat? But Roger knew if Angel was in a bad mood, and she didn't feel like giving him breakfast, that might lose him lunch, too. No. What was he thinking? That wasn't Angel, she wasn't like that. Right? "Can you... show me how to do that?" he asked, pointing to the knitting.

Angel grinned, and Roger felt tension leave his body. "Sure. Here. Oh." She realized that she had been working on Roger's birthday present. "You're serious about this, right?" she asked. "Come on. I'll buy you a skein."

--

Roger squealed at the many skeins stacked in bins along the walls. He touched thick, bright yarns and shimmer-laced partial alpaca blends. He giggled at painted eyelash yarns, the thousands of threads hanging like beards. Who came up with all these things? There were yarns with bubbly, tangly clumps intentionally spun in. There were lace yarns with big holes, like ladders. There were thick yarns and thin yarns, scratchy yarns made of cheap wool and good merino felting skeins. Roger rubbed mohair and baby yarns against his cheeks and smiled.

"I can really get one?" he asked.

Angel nodded. "Pick out any one you want," she said.

"What am I gonna make?" Roger asked.

A scarf had been the assumption, but if that wasn't what he wanted Angel certainly wasn't going to force him. "Whatever you want," she said.

"You'll help me?"

"Of course."

"What's easy to make?"

Angel considered. Scarves were the easiest, usually, but some methods made sweaters simple... "Scarves," she said. "Some sweaters--mostly not. Blankets. Ponchos."

"No," Roger said. "No, that's it. That's it, I wanna make a blanket, can I make a blanket, Mom?"

The word made them both pause for a moment, and Angel got that _look_, the one Roger hated, like she was about to cry. He blushed. "Y-yeah," she said. "Yeah, you can make a blanket! Come on. Let's find a nice yarn."

"Can I use this one?" Roger asked. He showed her the alpaca blend with shimmering threads.

Angel had to admit, the kid had good taste. For someone who hadn't known anything about knitting half an hour ago, he showed damn good instincts to pick out a decent yarn. He hadn't chosen one of the soft, cheap baby acrylics that were fun but fell apart after a wash or two. He had chosen an actual good, pretty yarn. "Yes," Angel said. "Come on. Grab a couple skeins and we'll pick out some needles." Roger chose all colors, knowing they would go well together.

It turned out there were as many types of needles as there were yarns. They ranged in size from the thickness of a Q-tip stick to the thickness of a quarter. Some were made of metal and others were made of plastic and some were even made of bamboo. Some of the plastic ones were painted dull grey so they looked metal. Some were translucent and colored in bright oranges and reds or dull blues and purples. There were some in packs of five with points on both ends, some connected by thin plastic wires. "What are these?" he asked.

"They're for knitting in the round. Um, tubes," Angel explained.

"Oh," Roger said. Those looked a bit scary. He looked at some needles with points that lit up for knitting in the dark. That might be handy, he thought, with his new bedtime and all... "These?" he asked, pointing to a pair of wooden needles with a big "11" on the plastic packaging.

Angel nodded. "All right."

When he saw how much everything would cost, Roger began to protest that it was too much. "Oh, hush. I'm buying it either way." She also impulse bought two pieces of chocolate and handed one to Roger on their way out. "Just promise you won't tell Collins."

Roger paused. He had unwrapped the chocolate eagerly, but now he took it away from his lips. "Why?" he asked.

"Because secrets are fun."

Roger wrapped the chocolate again.

_to be continued..._

review? pretty please?


	30. The Misunderstanding

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

Collins arrived home early that day, which is probably the reason he found Roger curled up on the bottom step, wrapped in a big sweater. Actually, he looked fairly adorable. He had his knees bent and a book resting open on them; he was fully absorbed in the story. Had Collins not known Roger's history, he never would have guessed it. Roger looked peaceful. He was actually _smiling_.

Damn. Suddenly Collins was glad to be home. The stress of a monumentally crappy day fled his body.

Then Roger turned a page, flashing his scarred left hand, and Collins sighed. So much for forgetting.

"Hey, Roger," he said.

Roger looked up from his book. His smile faltered. "H-hi," he said.

Collins hissed a sigh. "Roger," he said, "what happened?" Roger wore a number of fresh bruises on his face. His lip had split and swollen slightly on the left side of his face, and he had a large purplish bruise on the right side of his face. In profile it had been covered by his hair, but now Collins saw it clearly.

"I-I fell," Roger stammered. He looked at his feet and closed his book, slipping his finger between two pages to pick it up again later.

Right. Collins tossed his bag against the wall, sick of hauling around so much grading all day. He rolled his shoulders. Knowing his freshmen, these papers were just large-type bullshit. "If you're going to lie to me, at least be original."

"I fell down the stairs," Roger muttered.

Collins laughed. "Look, points for trying, but that one was around in my day. You had a fight. I'm not angry," he assured him, trying to convince Roger he had nothing to fear. He didn't know quite _why_ he was bothering, though. If Roger hadn't learned that over the past few months, words would seem fully empty to him. "I just want you to admit it."

Roger shook his head.

"You won't be in trouble," Collins promised. "Just tell the truth."

"I fell down the stairs." When Roger saw the look on Collins' face, he took a step back.

Collins had imagined his first meaningful physical contact with Roger. He had imagined the first time the boy actually consented to be hugged in various scenarios of vivid detail, though the most realistic involved Roger randomly running up, hugging him, then running upstairs and not leaving his room until dinnertime. At least he had consented to family dinners.

Bonding aside, none of Collins' imagined scenarios had taken into consideration the fact that his first meaningful contact with Roger might not be a gentle hug. It might be a firm grip on the arm that made Roger gasp, made his entire body tighten. "Sooner or later you'll actually have to _try_." Oh, God. Had those words actually come out of his mouth? Collins surely hadn't meant that. Right? He couldn't. He didn't say that.

Roger whimpered.

"Please just tell me what happened."

"I fell down the--"

"Roger!"

"Iwasinafightatschool," Roger blurted. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"Good." Collins released his arm. "Go to your room."

A part of Roger wanted to object. He wanted to say that Collins had promised he wouldn't be in trouble. But Roger didn't dare. He just hugged the book to his chest, turned and fled up the stairs.

Earlier, Angel had decided that tortilla soup would be a great thing to make for dinner that night. She mostly decided that because Roger's swollen mouth would not likely enjoy chewing, in fact it might even refuse to chew, so soup was the best option. And Angel did not believe in soup as a meal. Liquid meals were for invalids. Tortilla soup allowed for cheese and tortillas. Tortilla soup was like a quesadilla submerged in broth, and that, Angel found, was a fulfilling meal.

"Thomas!"

Collins responded immediately. First name meant business, even if business was food. Actually with Angel, business often was food. Maybe it was because she was younger than him, or maybe it was because he just didn't get women, but Collins was pretty sure if he ate as much as she did he would swell up like a balloon. (Not that he cared. Yeah right. If he gained even a pound, his brother miraculously knew, and was always ready to poke his stomach and quip something that shouldn't have hurt as much as it did. By rights, Collins thought, he should have an ED.)

"Yes, baby?"

"Should we bother setting the table?"

Collins glanced over his shoulder. The table was covered with his students' papers. "I'm gonna say no," he agreed. "And resist the urge to strangle all freshmen."

Angel pointed out, "Mark will be a freshman in a few months."

Collins slipped his arms around Angel's waist and nuzzled her neck. "I wouldn't call him the peak of intellect."

"Roger's going to be a freshman one day."

"Speaking of whom..."

"Right." Angel pulled away. "You finish grating the cheese," she said, rubbing her hands on her jeans. Grease from the cheese dampened the spots she touched. She pecked his cheek, then turned and headed up the stairs. "Roger!" Angel called gently. His bedroom door was shut tight, predictably, but he didn't answer when she knocked. "Roger?" Recently, he had been more accepting of Angel. She swallowed a mix of hurt and concern. "Can I come in?"

The answered relieved her immensely. "Yes," Roger called. He didn't come to the door, but he allowed her through it.

Since Christmas, he had kept two quilts on his bed and slept beneath both. Angel found him sitting on the bed with the topmost quilt, the one she had made him, wrapped around his body. Roger was curled up to the wall with his eyes closed. "Hey," she said. She sat next to him and touched his shoulder. "Is anything wrong?" she asked. Roger shook his head. "Are you sure?" she asked. He nodded. "Well, then come downstairs for dinner."

Roger shook his head.

"Honey," Angel soothed. She rubbed his back through the quilt, disturbed by the trembling. "You know the rules."

But Roger insisted, "'m not allowed."

"_What_?"

He tucked his body tighter in on itself and whimpered, "I'm not allowed to."

"Says who?" Angel wanted to know. Certainly no one in her house would ever say that! She touched his forehead. Could he be delusional? Certainly a fever would explain such strange reactions.

The answer took her by surprise. "Collins said."

"_Collins_ said you're not supposed to eat?" she asked, incredulous. Roger must have misunderstood. That was child abuse! He would never do a thing like that!

Roger nodded.

"You must be mistaken, honey. It was a misunderstanding."

Roger shook his head.

"Well _I_ say you have to eat dinner," she said. "Come on." But Roger only whimpered and pulled away from her, clinging to the wall and shaking. "All right. I'll be right back. Roger?" she asked, almost an afterthought, her voice feather-soft. "If I bring you up something, would you eat it?"

She waited for his confirmation before leaving.

Early on in their relationship, Collins and Angel had agreed that if they ever adopted children they would wait until they could go three months without a significant argument. Arguments over which brand of tooth paste to buy, which video to rent or what pizza toppings were best definitely did not count, which was a good thing since Angel insisted that multiple kinds of cheese were the best toppings and Collins preferred "dead things", as she referred to meat. They agreed to this because having a child would spout a new stream of arguments.

The first began that evening.

"Why does Roger think he's not allowed any dinner?" Angel demanded.

"What?" Collins asked, surprised. At first he couldn't think of an answer. They had never deprived him of food before. What indication had he taken now...? "Oh," Collins said, understanding, and Angel's eyebrows shot up in a sort of furious surprise. "I sent him to his room. Well, I'm sorry!" he responded to her judgmental look. "I lost my temper. I was... having a crappy day, and he can be stressful! Don't you ever just want to come home and _relax?!_"

"So you took away his meals?" Angel asked, trying and failing to keep her voice level.

Collins shook his head. "He kept lying. I sent him to his room."

Angel frowned. Roger might mumble into his chest or refuse to answer, but she had never suspeced him of lying. "Lying about what?" she asked, honestly curious.

"His face is all banged up. He said he fell down the stairs. Come on, Angel, I told that one to _my_ parents!"

"He fell down the stairs."

"Right."

"No. I'm not _asking_, Thomas, I'm telling you. Roger fell down the stairs today. I saw. I hated myself because you know what? I actually enjoyed that half hour while he was crying that Roger actually let me hold him." She pointed to the stairs. "Go apologize," Angel commanded.

And what mattered of the apology was this: Collins genuinely meant it, and Roger's fear would be a long time fading.

But at least he ate that night.

_to be continued!_

Hah! I get off the plane and have a new chapter finished three hours later.

Review? Pretty please?


	31. The Video

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's. Also the books and Trader Joe's belong to other people. (by the way, can anyone guess which books Roger reads?)

Roger walked with his eyes on the ground. He kept his shoulders curled and his hands in his pockets. The cement was covered with a coat of snow. With every step a toe swung into view, a semicircular strip of white rubber protecting the tips of a dark blue canvas sneaker. The snow crunched where Roger set his weight, making the air sound fresh and clear.

And with every step his backpack thumped against his back, heavy with his notebook and pens and text books and the three books he had checked out of the library that day.

And Roger was trying desperately to think about those books. It wasn't that they didn't interest him. They did. They interested him very much. He had a book about a boy who was kidnapped for two and a half years. Roger felt that way sometimes, kidnapped, like he'd had his whole life taken away from him. He had lost any ounce or semblance of control, ever.

He had another book about a boy who something (Roger wasn't sure quite _what_) happened to, and nobody really cared about what the boy was feeling.

The third book was about a girl who cut herself and got sent to a mental institution.

All three had sounded fascinating when Roger found them in the school library, but he couldn't think about that now. Now all he could think about was last period, and the kids at school, and the fact that his head hurt. Roger slipped his fingers up under his hair and touched his scalp.

"Ouch!"

Roger pulled his hand away. He shook his head. "Jerks," he muttered. He blew on his fingers and jammed them back in his pocket. It was cold, might even snow again tonight. Roger hoped it did. He hoped it snowed so bad he didn't have to go back to school tomorrow. Maybe it could snow so much the whole _world_ would be in snow for all of _ever_.

"Hey, Davis!"

Roger hunched his shoulders higher and his head lower. He moved slightly faster.

"_Hey_," the shouter insisted. "Hey, fag baby!"

Roger broke into a run. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and ran for all he was worth, gasping in cold air and pounding snow under his feet. Something whizzed past his ear. Roger whimpered and ran harder.

_Please God please can't'cha make it snow tonight hard please I'll believe in you tomorrow_

Angel wasn't around when Roger entered the house. He heard the steady whir of the sewing machine downstairs and sighed with relief. He brushed tears off his cheeks.

"Idiot," he murmured. _And what if she had seen you?! Don't do that anymore._ He climbed the stairs, holding his backpack by a single strap. Roger didn't feel like reading anymore. He didn't feel like doing his homework. He needed to just feel better.

Roger headed up to the attic where the television sat before an old, overstuffed sofa. Roger set his backpack down and knelt to find a film to watch. He saw a handful of children's films and adventure or fantasy movies, he guessed kept for when the family stayed over. That's what interested Roger. He wanted to watch _The Princess Bride_, it looked exciting.

But he didn't want to be caught watching that. Collins was already angry with him. Maybe there was something more educational. Roger poked around a bit more and found a documentary. It didn't look interesting, but it would suffice. It would give him time to daydream.

Roger always thought better with something to ignore.

He popped the film into the player and sat on the couch. "Aah…" Roger's sore body sank into the cushions. This was exactly what he needed after such an awful day.

But what was happening on the screen didn't look like a documentary on the evolution debate. In fact… it looked like…

Roger slapped his hands over his mouth before he could scream.

--

"Hey, Roger, get up."

Roger leapt off the stairs.

Collins had barely arrived home, and this was not precisely what he wanted to do, but he needed to be responsible. Sometimes Collins hated being a grown-up. "I'm going marketing, why don't you come along?"

Roger bit his lip, but he knew that wasn't a question. He lowered his head. "Tell Angel," he whispered.

"What?"

Roger raised his eyes. "Tell Angel," he repeated, slightly louder, "so she doesn't worry."

"Hey… of course I will. Do you know where she is?"

Roger pointed to the door. All the while Collins was talking to Angel he tried to imagine some plausible defense for staying home. Maybe he needed to do his homework. He had a test tomorrow. He had food allergies that might be exacerbated at the market. He had had a bad day. Maybe if he told what happened at school…

But when Collins headed out the door, Roger didn't say a word. He just followed.

Roger sat in the passenger seat. He wouldn't have, except that Collins told him he could, which in Roger's history meant he _should_. Roger did. He stared at the road through the windshield and the mat on the floor at his feet.

For the first few minutes, Collins had to focus fully on driving. The streets were slick and he didn't dare go over twenty miles an hour. But when they hit the freeway, where hours of trafficking by heated rubber had dried up the road, he could talk.

"Wh-why the freeway?"

"We're going to Trader Joe's. There's not one nearer by."

Roger was already breathing shallowly. When Collins began to speak, Roger interrupted him. "I did something bad today!" he admitted. Collins already knew, anyway, Roger figured: why else would he have asked him to go out somewhere where Angel wasn't?

Collins gritted his teeth against a sigh and nodded. "What happened?" he asked.

"I… I just wanted to watch a movie," he whimpered.

"That's fine, Roger," Collins assured him. "It's okay to watch tv, Roger."

Roger whimpered. He felt his chin wobbling and he knew that in a moment he was going to cry. Collins glanced over at him. "Roger, what's wrong?" he asked. "Oh, God. You didn't… try to watch the documentary about the evolution debate, did you?" Collins asked.

Roger nodded. "Uh-huh," he said.

"Are you okay?" Collins asked.

Roger shook his head. "No," he whimpered, and he began to cry. "Th... that's what M-Mark w-wanted!" he wailed.

Collins drove off the freeway and pulled over. He parked, got out of the car and went around to the passenger door. As soon as the door opened, Roger bolted. He didn't know where he meant to run to, just that he needed to run, but Collins caught him.

Roger whimpered and blubbered, "No, don't, I'm sorry, I'm so-o-orry, please…"

He twisted to free himself, and Roger was desperate, but eventually it amounted to a matter of brute strength and Collins was stronger than Roger. He pulled him close and held him. Roger was still whimpering and he tried to twist his body to free himself, but Collins held fast.

"It's okay, Roger. You're okay."

"I didn't mean to," Roger whimpered. "I swear I didn't."

"I know you didn't." Collins' voice was steady and low, and more because of tone than words, Roger stopped squirming. "I'm sorry you saw that, Roger." After a while, he stopped crying, too. "Are you okay?" Collins asked.

Roger nodded. "Yeah," he said. He wiped his face on the back of his hand. "I dunno… it wasn't even the film, I just…"

"Needed to cry?"

"Yeah."

"Are you all right now?" Collins asked.

Roger nodded. He answered without thinking, just gave the truth. Without more than a nod between them they climbed into the car again and Collins started the engine. "It's not that I'm unhappy," Roger said. "I like living with you and Angel."

"Really?" Collins asked. _Even though you accidentally saw porn? _"Because that's important to us, Roger."

"I'm happy," Roger promised.

"Good." Collins nodded. "That's good," he said, watching the road ahead of him. He took a deep breath, preparing himself to speak, then lost his nerve. He tried again, and finally said, "Then Roger, I need to know: if you're happy living with us, why are you still cutting yourself?"

_to be continued!_


	32. The Truth

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

"Well?" Collins asked, after Roger had said nothing for nearly five full minutes. To Collins, focusing on the road ahead, the time had passed quickly, but to Roger it dragged unbearably. He listened to his own breathing pull down his trachea, the noise overwhelming him. His heartbeat underscored the rhythm, playing like a bass. Collins' interruption came as a great relief, even if he didn't want to talk about this.

Roger glanced out the windshield at the road. It was solid grey with short breaks, interrupting markers to keep the cars in their lanes. He didn't understand those white lines. They just kept being there. No matter how far they drove, there would still be those lines on the road, running under the car, flying.

"Roger?" Collins asked.

Roger tore his gaze from the window. Collins was not even facing him, and he could feel Roger's stare. "What?" Roger asked. He was not openly rude, but there was nothing inviting in his tone. He said the words he needed to say.

"We need to talk about this."

Roger rubbed his knees. The weft of his jeans irritated his skin, and he knew the chafe should bother him but it didn't. "There's nothing to talk about." He watched the lines disappearing under the car. What did it feel like when a spot of oil dripped onto the paint stripes? Did they feel the burn of its heat? Did they like it? Roger didn't mind burns. It was the space around the burn that bothered him, the space where the nerves weren't dead but the skin was so hot it hurt where it could hurt.

Maybe that was life, Roger thought. Maybe that was how it treated you. It hurt you where it could.

Collins disagreed: "You cut yourself."

"No!" Roger yelled. His fists slammed against the seat, and he rocked slightly, his words tempered with a constant moan. "No, I _don't_, that's _sick,_" he said, his voice emerging as a strange sort of chant, his body moving forward at each emphasized syllable.

Collins ignored Roger for a moment, veering sharply as a black SUV cut him off. It was everything he could do not to swear. Normally, he had a sailor's mouth when he drove, cussing out anyone who took his right of way at a four-way stop or didn't inch quite far enough into the intersection to curve left. It was how sixteen-year-old Collins had learned to drive, by imitating his sister and informing cars that cut him off that it was "my turn, bitch!"

He knew it'd be best not to frighten Roger with that, though, so he kept his anger to himself. But whatever it was, it had worn Collins' nerves thin.

"Maybe you're sick, Roger," he suggested, not sarcastic or angry but perfectly even. He tried to propose it gently or even normally. How was school? Do you like pizza? Are you crazy?

"I'm not sick," Roger replied, actually bordering on angry. It was the most emotion Collins had heard from him since Roger broke down at Christmas. "Sick is locking a twelve-year-old boy in a dog cage on a rainy night and sending him to school the next day," he said quietly.

Collins nodded. "You're right. That's fucked up, Roger. That doesn't mean you're healthy."

"What do you care?" Roger demanded. He glared angrily at Collins, making his eyes offensive, making them smolder. "I'm not hurting Angel. I'm not hurting you."

"No, you're hurting you. And if child protective services knew that, we would lose you. Either you were bullshitting about being happy with us, in which case maybe you _should_ go, or you want to stay. We want you to stay. Your call, Roger."

Roger shivered. He had been telling no lie: he was happy with Collins and Angel. He liked that they had never deprived him of food or heat or shelter, and that his bruises and scars were fading with no new ones to replace them. He lo... lo... No. Roger couldn't even think it yet. He liked Angel a lot. He trusted her. He called her 'mom' because it made her happy, and it didn't hurt him so much. But he didn't love her yet.

"I'm happy with you," Roger whispered. His voice sounded cracked, broken. He licked his lips, but he had cried out all the moisture in him, it seemed. "I wanna stay."

"Good," Collins said, nodding to himself. And it _was_ good. They were making progress. "You need to talk to someone. If you'd like, we can find you a doctor. Otherwise--"

"I'll talk," he said quietly. Roger pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them tightly. There had to be some way out of this. They'd forget. He'd lie. They would forget after a while. They would forget and... forget about him. Roger squeezed his eyes shut.

No no no no

"Now's a good time."

Roger bit his lip. "We're reading _Les Miserables _in my English class. It's a French book. It's about a convict. His name is Jean Valjean. He was arrested for stealing a loaf of bread..."

He managed to ramble about the book for a full three minutes before Collins interrupted, "That's great, Roger, and I'm glad that you're doing well in school, I really am. But we need to talk about serious things."

"It's a real serious book." It's a real _stupid_ book, Roger thought, but he didn't say anything. He had seen Collins' bookshelf; it contained the _Pensees_ and _Fear and Trembling_ and every John Steinbeck, books Roger's fingers trembled to touch. He wasn't going to insult a book if it kept him from Collins' books.

"Roger," Collins said. His voice was lower, and his tone gentle, but also stern and exasperated. Roger needed to start behaving now, and he knew it. "You cut yourself, don't you, Roger?" he asked the windshield.

Roger nodded. Then, because Collins was watching the road, he added, "Yes."

Then Roger asked, in a tiny voice, "Can we go home now?"

Collins frowned. He hazarded a glance; Roger was staring straight ahead, sucking his thumb.

"Yeah," he said. "We can go home."

_Or at least I can._

_to be continued!_

With regard to updates... hey, I just came back to school, go easy. Hopefully the next update will be within the week.

Reviews will be given nice homes.


	33. The Breakdown

Also, a note: two chapters back, when people tried to guess what books Roger had taken from the library... mad props to Zylaxidia and xXDramaXGirlXx for guessing "When Jeff Comes Home" and "Cut". Also to Evie, just because.

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's

Roger would not speak on the ride home. He sat on the seat with his knees drawn up to his chin, staring straight ahead. As he saw houses, streets and shops that he recognized, Roger moved. His body jerked awkwardly. When the house came in sight he unbuckled his seatbelt, and as soon as Collins began to slow the car Roger leapt out.

Pain seared his hands, knees, and cheek where he hit the ground--hard. Collins called his name, but Roger didn't stop. He leapt to his feet, barely uttering a moan against the pain, and scrabbled towards the door.

Collins tried to catch up to Roger, but by the time he had parked Roger had let himself in. He opened the door with the key he'd been given ages ago and sprinted into the house, didn't even shut the door behind him. Collins sighed as he took care of that, then paused. He could go down to Angel's basement/workshop and get her upstairs to talk to Roger... but that meant leaving Roger on his own, and Collins wasn't sure he even began to trust Roger.

In the end, the choice was easy.

"Roger!" Collins called. Roger didn't answer, but Collins hadn't expected him to. He headed upstairs--Roger's bedroom door remained wide open, but the bathroom door was shut. Collins knocked on the bathroom door. "Roger, are you all right?"

Part of him hoped Roger had just really, really needed to pee. Maybe his bladder was under enough pressure to leap out of a moving vehicle.

Maybe kosher pigs would fly.

Collins heard noises from inside the bathroom--breathing, but heavy, almost huffing. It suddenly occurred to him that Roger might be doing exactly what any fourteen-year-old boy spent the majority of his time doing. If he _was_ doing that, no wonder he didn't answer! But Roger wasn't just any fourteen-year-old boy. Maybe this had to do with the porno? Maybe Roger was ashamed of it.

"Roger, I need to know you're okay."

Roger didn't answer. He was talking to himself, frantically murmuring. Okay, so Roger was definitely not masturbating. At least that was one question answered. Still, it did nothing to put Collins at ease. He knocked again and this time, when Roger didn't answer, he warned, "I'm coming in if you don't answer me!"

Honestly Collins didn't know if he would. Sure, the door was thin, the wood old. A guy like him would have no trouble breaking it down. That didn't mean he particularly wanted to, just because he could. Besides the fact that he liked his house intact, Collins saw no need to traumatize Roger by proving legitimacy to his fears.

Imagine his relief when the doorknob turned!

Collins stepped into the bathroom, bracing himself for whatever he might find.

Roger sat on the edge of the bathtub, shaking. His hand was bleeding. Actually, both hands were bleeding, and there were spots of blood on the knees of his jeans. The scrape on his cheek looked raw, too. The bleeding in his right hand was worse, though, and all on the floor around Roger were curls of hair.

"Roger?" Collins asked.

Roger sobbed. "Go away," he whimpered. "Go _away_, I didn't want to be this anymore!"

"Didn't want to be what?" Collins asked, keeping his voice as level as possible.

There was a tone of venom to his eyes when Roger looked up. "Pretty," he said, as though it was completely obvious, as though Collins was causing him pain by not knowing. He shouted, "I'm not a fucking--!" But the last word wouldn't come. Roger dropped a blade to the ground and raised both hands to his head. He rocked frantically. "I'm not, I'm not," he whispered.

"No, you're not," Collins said, unsure what he had agreed to. He knelt to pick up Roger's blade. It was a tip for an X-acto knife. "Roger, where did you get this?"

Roger whimpered and shook his head. Among the myriad of syllables, Collins recognized "no".

"It's all right. I'm not angry. Just tell me where you got this."

"F-found it. Upstairs. Under the boards. It's _mine_."

"No." Collins wrapped the blade in toilet paper to keep it from poking him immediately and he pocketed it. "It's not."

"Okay."

"Roger?"

"'s me."

Was he being clever? A part of Collins hoped so. "I'm going to clean your hands up, okay?" he said. Whether or not it was, Collins grabbed a washcloth and soaked it in the sink, then swabbed the blood from Roger's palms. He did the same for his cheek and knees (which Roger did _not_ care for). There were wounds, yes, but none that needed bandaging except the hand Roger had cut. The others had nearly closed themselves.

"You okay?" Collins asked, when he'd seen to Roger's wounds.

Roger shook his head. "Nope. No. Not okay."

"You want to lie down for a while?"

Roger shook his head again. "Can't. Stop. Moving. Stop--I'll cry--be useless when you cry--no good--can only... cry... can't do that..."

"Sure you can. It might help." So might heavy drugs, but Collins didn't say that--thought it, yes, but he kept the thought to himself. "Come on, Roger. Let's get you to bed." He took Roger's elbow and guided the boy gently to his feet. Once Roger was moving, he relaxed slightly, letting the motion of his legs ease the spinning, churning feeling in his head and torso.

Collins thought of how quiet he kept. He thought of the time he and Benny, then thirteen and eighteen years old, sneaked downstairs to retrieve the marijuana they had hidden earlier. He remembered how his mind was lost in the airy Shakespearean words that made him float, and when Benny trod too loudly Collins hushed him with an angry hiss of, "Soft you now!"

Maybe Roger was not so unlike Hamlet.

_But soft you now, the fair Ophelia.  
Nymph in the orizons, be all my sins  
remembered._

It was she Collins saw in Roger, as though brought at the last moment from the river.

Roger pulled off his shirt, then stopped. He stood, blinking, and after a moment Collins realized that he had forgotten what to do next. Roger had blanked out.

"Here." Collins slid one of Roger's arms through his pajama top and Roger figured out what to do with the other. _I guess this is what we missed,_ he thought. _Babying. Being needed for everything. Missed,_ he thought, his mind tinged with irony. They hadn't missed it at all. "You okay now?" he asked.

Roger closed his eyes and nodded.

"Okay. I'll let you be, then."

Roger listened to Collins' footsteps, paying especial attention to the even noise, letting it fill his head as he slipped beneath the covers of his bed. But as Collins approached the door the sound of his footsteps faded, which was beginning to make Roger a bit nervous. The sound filled his head. What thoughts would replace it?

"Collins?"

The word leapt out so quiet and high at first Roger didn't even know for certain whether or not he had spoken aloud. Then Collins asked, "Yeah?"

"Um... wo... would you stay with me? Please? Just for a little while."

Collins turned. "Of course I will." He walked back and sat on the floor by the bed.

"Do I have to go away?" Roger asked.

"No. We usually go to the beach in summer," Collins added, in case Roger meant away from the house. "If you feel comfortable with that. And Joanne does pesach, that's in a couple of months."

"But I can stay here?" Roger asked. His head felt heavy, slowed as if full of cotton. "I can stay with you?"

Collins cleared his throat. "Actually, uh, depending... on your opinion, of course, Angel and I have been talking about..." All right, so Collins felt a tad bit guilty bringing this up without Angel present. She had been so excited, thrilled, ecstatic at the prospect, and here he went ruining her opportunity to see Roger's delight. But then, Collins knew what Roger expressed would be somewhat short of delight.

For his own part, Roger was biting his lip and clenching his fists around the blanket. This was it. This was the we're-sending-you-away piece. What would it be--for your own good? We're sorry, we tried? He didn't care. He'd heard all of them.

Maybe he would run away. Roger didn't think he could settle anywhere after living with Collins and Angel. Which, he realized, was what home felt like. Roger suppressed a whimper, and a sob, and a hurricane of tears.

"Roger, we'd like to adopt you."

He began to weep.

_to be continued!_

_Review? Pretty please?_


	34. Epilogue

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

June:

At eight o'clock in the morning, Angel Dummott-Schunard-Collins stood at the counter, leaning over the sink as she bit off half what remained of her sandwich. The sink caught the crumbs. Melted fat smeared onto her chin and lips, but that was a risk she took with a bacon and egg sandwich. In fact, perhaps no risk, perhaps it was simply an advantage, in addition to the innate deliciousness of the combination. It had taken Angel a grand total of two minutes to eat her sandwich, and now she swallowed the last bite and hollered up the stairs, "Roger!"

Upstairs, in his bedroom, Roger groaned. He had packed his bag the previous afternoon. Everything was tidy. After nine months, his room maintained the impersonal quality that upset Angel. His stomach twisted whenever she looked in his room and her eyes glazed over, but a part of Roger couldn't leave a permanant mark. What if, just _if_ they decided they wanted a baby, or a girl, or something, and someone else needed the room?

Whenever Roger had these thoughts he smoothed the quilt that was his and only his, and wondered if Angel would stop loving him. It was an improvement over two months ago, when he wondered if she loved him at all.

Now he had his new belongings spread over the bed again. The family took a vacation at the beach each summer, the entire family: Joanne, Maureen and Mark; Benny, Alison and Mimi; Angel and Collins, and now Roger. The beach meant a handful of new things for Roger. He needed a swimsuit and a towel, sandals, and according to Angel he needed sunglasses. ("Hey, you chose the short hair, honey. And let's face it, everyone loves a bad boy.") She had a great time buying him shorts and T-shirts, until Collins rescued Roger by saying no trip to the beach was even endurable without a good book. In fact, several.

Roger still laughed at his swimsuit. Aside from being the baggiest shorts Roger had ever seen, they were blue with little wave/flame red pieces. Roger thought he would look hilarious in them. Collins said that white boys always looked hilarious no matter what they wore. Of course, he had said this to Angel, but Roger overheard and still giggled about that, sometimes.

"Roger!" Angel called again.

He turned and hurried out into the hall. "I'll be right there!"

Then he ran back into his room and hurriedly shoved his things into the bag. He hauled the bag down the stairs, dropped it, then doubled back to meet Angel in the kitchen. Roger's glance was momentarily drawn to the 4.0 report card on the refrigerator, then Angel tapped him on the shoulder and reminded him to eat. "Sorry," he murmured, concerning his tardiness. "I had to pack."

"I thought you packed last night," she said, not accusing, just curious.

"I did," Roger said. He grabbed his breakfast off the counter and bit into it.

Angel laughed. She ruffled his hair. "All right. Are you ready now?"

Roger nodded. He licked runny egg yolk off his hand, took another bite, and asked, "Eee'sad?"

"Hm?"

Roger swallowed. "Where's Dad?" he asked. He had never exactly gotten comfortable with the concept of referring to Collins as 'Dad'. The title had just sort of leapt out one day, and now Roger could barely fathom addressing him as anything else.

"Buying petrol," Angel answered. "Tom prefers to get the driving over with all at once."

"Why can't you drive?"

"Because. Eat your breakfast."

Roger heard a little voice in his head say, _That's not a coherent answer._ The truth was, he was a naughty child at heart--endearing, cherubic, but naughty. It would be a time before he allowed his naughtiness to take control. He took a big bite of his sandwich and chewed.

Collins was home by the time Roger finished his sandwich, and when Roger wandered out of the kitchen looking for his bag, it was gone. "Ready to go?" Collins asked.

Roger nodded. He wasn't sure if Collins could understand the mix of eagerness and nerves, or the relief that Mark had to stay home for a pre-college course.

"M-my bag..."

"In the car. C'mon, Rog, we can get to the beach by two."

"One tank of gas can last for six hours?" Roger asked. He immediately gasped and ducked his head.

"C'mere." Collins hugged Roger tightly and kissed his hair. "Yes, it can." He released him. "Are you excited to see Mimi again?" he asked, carefully shepharding Roger out the front door.

"Sure."

"Excited to be out of school?"

"Yes!"

A year of high school was enough to teach Roger that he couldn't wait to graduate. But that brought up the college question... Roger began to gnaw on his thumb. He twisted to watch the house, staring like the harder he looked the longer it would last with him not in it. Would college mean having to leave forever?

But he couldn't live with Collins and Angel forever, even though they had adopted him, even though he'd legally gotten a hyphenated name.

"Roger? Are you okay?"

Roger turned and sat properly in his seat. "Yeah," he said, grinning. "I'm fine."

_The End!_

...yes, I notoriously have bad endings. For anyone still reading, thank you!

And, shamelessly: please check out 'rentfichallenge' on livejournal!

I started this work of fiction after hearing one too many true stories. It became Roger's story about his grades, but I heard it thirdhand about an eleven-year-old girl who came into school crying. The events described by Roger in this story are drawn from real life. The horrible abuse described in this story is inflicted on hundreds of children, in all countries, in all neighborhoods. All children deserved to be loved. If you know of someone in this situation, please report it.

Also, there _are_ good foster homes and adoptive homes with loving families.


End file.
